Winter's Wind
by mermaidsahoy
Summary: Set in the North in the 1860's, at the start of the Civil War. Gone with the Wind themes throughout. Sansa is a young woman from a prestigious family, Sandor is a roguish man of questionable background. How will the war bring these two together? (Rating may change later).
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This smacked me in the head last night and wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote it at work. Set in the 1860s, at the beginning of the Civil War, with a lot of Gone with the Wind themes, but in the North instead of the South. Most of the names will be GoT, but some places and lines and people will be from GwtW as well. Sansa, I hope, will be much in character and more likeable than Scarlett O'Hara. For Sandor, I will try to keep him in character as much as possible, with just a dash of Rhett Butler here and there. I like a forward Sandor, so he'll be a bit more outspoken. Hope you enjoy this!

(If you haven't seen/read Gone with the Wind, you should!)

Chapter One

Sansa had planned to be up at the crack of dawn to be ready for the party, but tossing and turning all night had driven her into an exhausted sleep from which she only awoke after her Septa banged on her door and threw it open. "You better get up now, Miss Sansa, or your family is like to leave for the party without you." Sansa groaned and sat up as Septa threw open the curtains to let the morning light in. Then she remembered. "Oh!"

She leaped out of bed and ran to the closet where her new dress was hanging, fresh and pressed. It was a beautiful white covered with green leaves and vines, and a full skirt that swayed like a bell when she walked. Hurriedly Sansa pulled off her nightgown and began to slip on her undergarments, fussing with her corset until Septa Mordane came to her aid. "Now you just hold tight to the bedpost, dear." Sansa did, and she gulped as Mordane pulled the strings of the corset tighter and tighter, and tied them. It was a nuisance to have to wear such a contraption, but it was what ladies wore, and Sansa was proud of her figure.

At last the corset was done, and Sansa turned eagerly to the dress. "Not yet, Miss. Let's do your hair first," Mordane said firmly, leading her to the little vanity table. While the Septa combed out Sansa's long red curls, she busied herself by applying some powder to her face and pinching her cheeks for color. She had to look her absolute best for this party. Joffrey was going to be there.

The families of Stark and Baratheon were close, although they lived in separate areas of the States, and Sansa and Joffrey had been somewhat of a proposed match between them. Though nothing had been officially said, Joffrey had been everything a gentleman should be like during his last visit, and he had even written to her, his letters filled with sweet words and promises. It had been months and months since she had last seen him, but Sansa had quite convinced herself that they were in love, and that this party could finalize an understanding between them._ Engaged_, she thought dreamily. Joffrey was handsome and stylish, a perfect gentleman. There would be no finer match in the county, she was sure of it.

The party was to be head at Twelve Oaks, the Baratheon family's Northern estate. It was beautiful and elegant, and Sansa hoped that it could become her and Joffery's permanent residence, should they become married. His family lived in the South, in Georgia, but there was had been talk of moving some their business North. And they would someone to over-see it. It only made sense for Joffrey to be in charge.

Sansa was so excited she barely heard Mordane tell her she should eat something. "Oh, nonsense. I shall eat when I get to the party." She stood and practically danced to the dress. Finally. Mordane huffed, but she helped her mistress slip the dress over her head and smooth all the billows of fabric. The front was low, lower than what Sansa usually wore, and it left her shoulders bare, but she needed to look grown-up for this party, so she pulled the front a little lower, and fluffed up the cinched flowers and ribbons, making her bosom look fuller, all the while ignoring her Septa's disapproving glare. "Your mother will say something," Mordane insisted, and she pulled the front back up. "Oh very well," Sansa conceded, and decided she would fix it later. _How wicked! I'm starting to sound like Arya!_ She thought and held back a giggle.

Finally ready, she grabbed her hat and parasol and began to make for the door. "Oh, no you don't. You come right back here and eat some of these biscuits and sausage," Mordane commanded, twirling her back around. "I don't have time!" Sansa protested. "You have time enough," Mordane said patiently. "Unless you'd rather look unlady-like later, stuffing your mouth at the barbecue." That settled the argument, and Sansa sat on the steps to her bedroom, picking up a biscuit and buttering it hastily. "And don't eat so fast! You'll make yourself sick," Mordane chided. "I'm sorry," Sansa replied, repentant. "It's just that I will be seeing Joffrey for the first time in ages, and- Her door burst open and Arya whirled in, dressed haphazardly. "Papa says you're to hurry, Sansa." Sansa practically threw the tray of food away from her and stood, grabbing on to the wall to avoid falling over from her large skirt. "Do I look alright?" she asked, nervously smoothing herself and glancing into the full-length mirror near her closet. She saw a bright-eyed, pink-cheeked girl, and wished the freckles on her nose had disappeared in the night. "You look lovely," Mordane said. "You look fine," Arya snorted. "Now hurry!" Her younger sister grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the room. "Miss Sansa! Your gloves!" Mordane called. "Keep them!" Sansa hollered back as Arya tugged her down the long staircase.

The rest of the Starks were waiting by the front door. Ned Stark was dressed in a plain suit, but he looked impressive nevertheless. Beside him Catelyn Stark was dressed in a beautiful blue gown, fussing with Rickon's untucked shirt. Sansa's heart swelled as she took in her mother. She was exactly the kind of lady Sansa wanted to be: strong, clever, kind, and gracious. Sansa had heard many times that she was very image of her mother, and it made her push her shoulders back proudly.

Robb, the oldest Stark, wore a crisp blue suit and looked very handsome. He smiled when he saw Sansa and took her arm. "Sister, I'm afraid I'll have to stay close by today." "Whatever for?" she asked. "To beat off the all the wretched young men that will try to talk to you," he answered with a laugh. Sansa blushed but giggled. "I couldn't ask for a better protector," she said, letting him lead her out the front door to where the coach was waiting. "You might need more than one," came a voice by her other arm, and she looked to see Jon smiling at her. Jon was her half-brother, near Robb's age. Sansa did not know the full story, only that her father had returned with him in hand, and raised him as one of the other children. She had not liked him, out of respect for her mother, until last summer when her horse had run away with her, and Jon had saved her from falling into the river. Then she felt foolish and regretted treating him badly, and now they were friends.

"Two protectors? But then I won't get to speak to any young men," she protested teasingly. The brothers looked at each other over her head. "Exactly!" they said in unison. Laughing, they helped her into the coach, then turned to Arya. "I can get in on my own," she huffed, climbing up, successful in spite of her long skirts, and settled next to Sansa. "You look very nice," Sansa complimented her. She was in a good mood, and wanted to be in pleasant terms with her sister. Normally they bickered a great deal. Arya turned and raised her eyebrows. "I do?" "Yes. Only…wait." Sansa licked her thumb then used it wipe off a mysterious smudge on her sister's cheek. "There. Perfect." Arya seemed surprised by her sister's praise, but smiled and mumbled a thank-you.

The rest of the family loaded in, and the coach set off to take them to Twelve Oaks.

It was a perfect day. The sky was clear and the weather warm, with just a hint of wind. Winterfell was a large estate settled in the heart of Pennsylvania, and as they passed the fields and wooded lanes Sansa thought that no estate, anywhere, could be as grand and lovely. Not even the Baratheon estate in Georgia, or the Lannister estate of Casterly Rock. Nothing could ever compare to the winding hills and rivers and fields of Winterfell.

They reached Twelve Oaks and had to wait in line behind several other coaches that arrived before them, depositing richly dressed gentlemen and women decked in their finest summer dresses. Sansa could barely keep her seat in anticipation, her eyes scanning the crowded front lawn for her friend, Jeyne. Their coach finally pulled up to the front, and Sansa almost tripped on Arya's skirt in her hastiness. The family almost immediately scattered: Jon and Robb wandered off to join a group of young men laughing around an oak tree and smoking; Arya dashed off to who-knew-where; Bran and Rickon joined a pack of boys running by; and Mr. and Mrs. Stark were hailed by a neighbor. Sansa was left to face the mansion alone, but she held her head up and swept through the open front door.

Inside was bustling with people, gathered in large groups and talking noisily about horses and crops and clothing and tobacco and the possible war. Sansa began to weave through them, pausing every time someone greeted her. "Miss Sansa, don't you look beautiful!" "Miss sansa, I haven't seen you all summer! Why haven't you called?" "Miss Sansa, that's an absolutely divine dress!" Sansa made all the polite answers, laughing merrily, all the while searching for Jeyne. She finally spotted her near the polished winding staircase. "Jeyne!" "Oh, Sansa! I've been looking everywhere for you!" The girls hugged, then stood back to admire each other's dresses. "Have you seen Joffrey?" Sansa asked, biting her lip. "Not yet, but he's probably outside." Jeyne squeezed her friend's hand. "I'm sure you'll see him soon." Three more girls joined them, and Sansa soon forgot her anxiety as she slipped into hearing and discussing the latest gossip and fashions.

A prickle suddenly ran up her neck, and Sansa had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. Half-listening to the conversations, she glanced about the room, trying to discern where the feeling was coming from. No one particular stood out, so she eased her attention back to her friends. _Must be nerves_.

Jeyne was telling them all where she had bought her hair ribbons when she felt the prickle again, and it shot down all the way to her spine. Slowly Sansa turned her head and caught sight of a figure standing in one of the doorways, an obvious distance placed between himself and the groups of people. He was a tall man and powerfully built. Sansa thought she had never seen a man with such wide shoulders, so heavy muscles, almost too heavy for gentility, and so tall! Underneath his plain black coat was a crisp white shirt and a waistcoat, also plain, and the size of his chest was evident, matching the rest of the strength he exuded in his bearing. Her eyes fell on his tan face, half-hidden by the dim light of the doorway, but she was able to make out a firm and square jaw with dark stubble, strong and prominent cheekbones, and nose that was slightly hooked, perhaps broken at some point. He had longer dark hair that was swept over one half of his face, and Sansa thought she saw some kind of scarring. But what sent a jolt through her were his eyes. Bold and piercing black, and staring straight at her, unabashedly taking her in and appraising her with a cool recklessness. Sansa felt her skin burn and her cheeks flushed. He was watching her in a way that a proper gentleman shouldn't watch a lady; a way that seemed animalistic. And yet Sansa felt mesmerized, drawn to his gaze.

The man lifted a cigar to his mouth and drew from it, never taking his eyes from her as he released the smoke slowly. The movement made Sansa snap out of it, and she turned quickly back to her friends, feeling shaken. Was it suddenly so very hot in the room?

Trying to act nonchalant, Sansa attempted to join the conversation again, but she could feel the man's eyes on her still, burning her through. It was uncomfortable, yet it made her heart thud maniacally. She knew she was pretty, and was used to young men flirting or complimenting her, but this…this was something entirely different. He looked like he wanted to devour her. And Sansa hadn't the slightest idea of how to handle such a situation.

Eventually the other girls began to drift away towards the backyard, where the barbecue was taking place, or upstairs to check their dresses. Sansa waited until they were gone before she grabbed Jeyne's arm. "Jeyne," she whispered. "Who's that man behind us, standing at the dooryway? The tall, dark one." Her friend glanced casually over her shoulder, pretending to look for someone. She giggled and leaned in to whisper. "That's Sandor Clegane. He's a friend of the Baratheons. Used to do some business with them, I believe. They call him the Hound, but I'm not sure why." Sansa didn't know what to think of that. "He's staring at you, Sansa." "Stop looking!" Sansa pulled her friend away, eager to escape the smothering heat of the man's eyes.

It was a relief to go outside, and the fresh air mingled with the barbecue soon made Sansa forget all about Sandor Clegane, and she joined the rest of the young ladies under a shady tree, where they sipped lemonade and gossiped. Most of the girls tended to be flighty and Sansa often felt exasperated by them, but a lady of her status was expected to socialize and please, so that was what she did. Clusters of young men trickled by, paying compliments to the ladies and offering to bring them food. Sansa accepted a plate from Willas Tyrell, a shy young man with a limp. He was kind and Sansa spoke with him warmly, yet she wished it was Joffrey attending to her. She still hadn't seen him, though she had seen his mother Cersei Baratheon, and even his younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella. Perhaps he had not come North with the rest of the family? Surely not. Sansa hated feeling so uncertain and it ruined her appetite.

The eating drew an end as the early afternoon approached, and the ladies began to retire to the many bedrooms upstairs to rest before the dancing later that day. Sansa followed them, feeling melancholy, when she felt someone touch her arm. "Miss Sansa, there you are." She turned and met the beautiful green eyes of Joffrey Baratheon. He smiled, showing off perfect white teeth. Sansa gaped at him for a moment before hurriedly offering a smile and polite greeting back, her heart pounding. "I know you are heading upstairs, but I was wondering if I might have a word with you beforehand?" he asked pleasantly. Sansa nodded and let him lead her away, feeling giddy. At last, she could speak with him! And they would be alone!

He led her down a quiet hallway and into a small library. Across the hall was a room filled with men drinking scotch and smoking and giving their opinions on the possible war, but they paid them no mind. Joffrey shut the library door behind them, and Sansa smoothed her skirts and clasped her hands eagerly.

"You look wonderful, Sansa. It's been a long time," Joffrey began. She swallowed, feeling butterflies fill her stomach. "You look very well, yourself, Joffrey. I…I have been looking forward to seeing you again." He smiled, and Sansa wondered wildly if this was the moment. Was he going to propose?

"Yes, so have I. You see, I wanted to talk to you about something, and I very well couldn't do it over a letter. You understand, I'm sure." "Of course. Some things just can't be expressed completely in a letter," Sansa managed to answer. _This is it! _Joffrey walked towards the window and looked out. "You see, Sansa, I'm going to have a large responsibility for the family business soon," he began. Sansa nodded, her exterior much calmer than what she felt inside. "And, as member of importance in our community and the business world, it is important that I marry well." Sansa's hands began to shake.

He turned towards her, putting his hands in his pockets. "I know that our families have talked about us…the possibility of a union. However, it has been decided that another union would be far more beneficial." Sansa felt her windpipe shut. What was he saying? "You see," Joffrey continued, as if he was discussing the weather. "I'm to marry Margaery Tyrell."

The room was silent, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the distant shouting of the men in the other room. Sansa's insides felt scrambled and cold. "Wh-what?" she managed. "I thought I should be the one to tell you," Joffrey continued, "Since…it seemed that you were hoarding ideas of our possible marriage. I wanted to let you know that it is, in fact, now impossible." Sansa felt like she was grasping for air. "But..but…I thought…" No! This couldn't be happening! "But your letters…you said…" Joffrey waved his hand flippantly, as if to ward off a fly. "I wrote what was expected, Miss Sansa." His lips pulled into a sneer. "Surely you understand. Margaery Tyrell comes from a family just as rich and powerful as the Starks, and with their trade routes, this marriage will be much more advantageous."

Her stomach hurt. Sansa grasped the back of a chair. "But..our fathers…" Joffrey only laughed. "You are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother said you were. It's a good thing that we will no longer be matched, otherwise I'd worry for our children's sanity." Sansa gaped at him, unable to form words. "Well, I must be getting back to my guests. Enjoy the rest of the party, Miss Sansa." Joffrey crossed the room, opened the door, and left without so much as a backwards glance.

The door shut softly behind him, and Sansa stood, frozen in place. How could this be? How had things changed so quickly? She thought he loved her…and he had treated her with hardly any respect! Unbidden, tears came to her eyes, and the cold shock developed in anger. Her eyes spotted a small statue of a lion, the symbol for the Lannister family, and before she knew she had snatched it up and hurled it at the wall behind the fireplace. It smashed into a thousand pieces with a satisfying crack, and Sansa might have sat down and began to weep if not for a loud whistle, and a man sat up from the couch. He looked at Sansa, then at the smashed statue, then back at her. "Has the war started?" Sansa gasped. It was the man from the doorway, the one who had been staring at her. And he had...heard…oh…!

"You…you should have made yourself known, sir." A flush of embarrassment crept into her face as the man stood to his full height and walked around the couch. "And interrupt that heart-breaking scene? I couldn't." His voice was deep and rasping, like a saw scraping across stones. The library was not well lit, and Sansa did not like how the shadows mingled with his features. As he passed by the window, she saw that the one side of his face was, indeed, covered with scars; burn scars, at a closer look. His dark eyes glittered as he observed her, but Sansa felt too embarrassed and stunned to feel shy. "Eavesdroppers," she began. "Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things," he grinned, flashing sharp white teeth at her. "You are no gentleman," she proclaimed indignantly. "You're right, I'm not," the man said as he approached her, reaching into his pocket. Sansa was suddenly gripped by fear, and losing her momentum she backed away. The man stopped, but retrieved a white handkerchief from his pocket and reached it out to her. Sansa realized she was crying. Feeling more foolish, she took it and whispered a thank-you, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks.

The man sat down in a leather chair and leaned back, his large frame filling it completely. "You look pale. You should sit down," he said motioning at the chair across from him. Sansa, still feeling humiliated, retorted, "It's not proper for a young woman to be alone in a room with a strange man." "Is that so?" he asked, sounding amused. "Well then, I'll introduce myself. Sandor Clegane," he poked himself in the chest with a long finger, "And you are Miss Sansa Stark? There, now we are no longer strangers, but acquaintances. Will you sit?" Too overwhelmed to argue further, Sansa hesitated, then sat down dejectedly.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked, fishing a cigar from a box on the table near him. Sansa shook her head, watching idly as he struck a match and lit the cigar, waving the match out quickly before depositing it in the ashtray. Part of her wondered why she was still even in the room, but she knew she wasn't ready to go back upstairs and face all the questions from her friends, who had, no doubt, seen Joffrey pull her away. And Margaery Tyrell would be up there…

She sniffed, twisting the hankie in her lap. "Don't feel too bad," Sandor Clegane advised as he puffed out some smoke. "Think of what Miss Tyrell has to put up with now. If anything, you should be relieved." Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. "I am not relieved! It's…humiliating! Everyone will know!" He shrugged. "So? Some other scandal will blow their way soon enough, and they'll forget all about it." Sansa knew he was right, but it didn't ease the pain she felt. "I'll feel bad if I like," she said, jutting her chin out. The man chuckled, a harsh, vibrating sound, shaking Sansa's resolve. "Well in any case, your tears make your pretty blue eyes stand out. And the flush is coming back to your cheeks," he observed. Sansa's mouth dropped open. "You are…too familiar," she sputtered. "I don't see how complimenting a woman is being too familiar," he replied, looking her up and down, the hungry look from earlier returning to his eyes. "And why else would you wear such a dress, if you were not fishing for compliments?" "My-my dress?" Sansa felt so taken aback she could barely form a sentence, her mind struggling to cope with Joffrey's insults and this man's forwardness. "Yes, your dress. I like it. It shows off your pretty white shoulders. I noticed them earlier, when you were chirping away with your friends, and pretending that you didn't know I was looking at you," he smirked, taking another long pull at the cigar as he waited her reaction.

"Why of all the..." Sansa stood up abruptly. Who did this man think he was? Deep down Sansa felt pleased and flattered by his words, but she was too upset to handle them at the moment. "I don't desire to continue this conversation any longer," she said, trying to muster her dignity while she really felt like melting under his gaze. Sandor gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's getting so hard to please the ladies these days." Sansa felt her face burn. "You, sir, are an insufferable man!" He gave a barking laugh. "So the girl has spirit! A rarity, and I take my hat off to you. Not many people can even look me in the eye you know." He appraised her again, standing, and Sansa drew up a mental image of a pirate advancing upon a maiden to be ravished. He came closer, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. "Too bad you didn't show some of that spirit to young Baratheon back there." "I'd thank you not to bring up a subject that you have no business knowing about," Sansa responded, annoyed at how he seemed to throw her off-balance. "Are you still upset about that? Come, come, my dear, that boy didn't care for you any more than he would a nice brood mare." Sansa gasped. "Really! How dare you speak to me that way!" She had a horrible feeling that he was right, but still! "It's true, though. Boys like him are all the same. And one by one they'll snatch up the girl that they feel they'll profit most from." He stamped out his cigar, then cocked his head at her. "Now you…a woman of your beauty and spirit doesn't want one of those _boys_, do you?" A wicked grin spread over his face, twisting the scars on one side. "What _you_ need is a man." Sansa could not have been more surprised if a parade suddenly marched into the room. Blushing furiously, she grasped the door handle.

"Enjoy the rest of the party. Good day, sir." She turned and swept to the door. If she didn't escape this enclosed room and this man soon she might fall apart. "Good day, Miss Sansa," he drawled, his rough voice deepening as she turned to look back him. "I have a feeling we'll met again soon." Now he was being presumptuous! "I highly doubt that," she said haughtily, before jerking the door open and making her way down the hall, using all of her strength to not glance back as she heard his laughing resonate behind her.

A/N: FYI, some of the description of Sandor is the same as the description of Rhett in the book, as well as a couple lines from both book and movie in his and Sansa's conversation. Hoped you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sandor laughed as he watched the girl exit in an angry huff. He went to the door and looked down the hallway at her fleeing from him, walking as fast as her ridiculous skirts would let her. He chuckled and put his hands in his pockets. That had been fun and entertaining indeed.

He had thought that morning that this party would be an absolute bore, and a buggering waste of time. But of course, the Baratheons had to showcase their wealth by putting on a barbecue and inviting almost the whole countryside, and as he was already staying at their house, he was obliged to attend as well. Sandor had no use for the courtesies practiced by the gentility, and he couldn't stand the fake and petty gallantry that the young men put on for the ladies. But the smell of food had drawn him from the library, and he had meandered through the growing crowd, which parted easily for his large frame. Most of the people shied away from him and avoided looking at his scars; a few bolder and foolish lads openly stared until he met their eyes, then they sweated and squirmed and looked away. But he was used that.

With no one in particular that he wished to speak to, Sandor had eased into one of the empty doorways and smoked a cigar, watching the swirling groups of men and women, all talking in annoyingly high voices. The young ladies were all affected and vain, strutting about with their summer dresses and smiling coquettishly at the boys. It was disgusting.

He was about to leave when he saw her.

She moved gracefully from person to person, pausing here and there for a quick word before flitting away. The girl had a bountiful of red hair that curled into soft ringlets, and her dress lay low in the front, giving Sandor a delicious view of her white shoulders and just a peek at the tops of her bosom. She was beautiful and young, pink cheeked, with merry blue eyes. He remained where he was, curious. While the girl smiled and chatted, there was something about her that was different from the rest of these petty girls, who all paled in comparison to her. She seemed distracted until she found some friend, whom she spoke with until they were interrupted by a troop of other young ladies.

Pulling on his cigar, he let his eyes wander over her figure, noting how slim her waist was. He could fit both hands around it and then some. If the skin of her shoulders and chest were so creamy and soft, he could imagine what the rest of her body was like…

He saw the girl's back stiffen, and she cast a glance around the room, a puzzled expression on her face. It ended quickly, but Sandor was suddenly determined to make her see him. He wanted her to see him watching her. So he kept his gaze heavy until her back stiffened once more, and she glanced behind her.

The look on her face had been one of surprise, then confusion, and then shyness as she realized he was staring at her. He had stayed still, letting her observe him, and enjoying the way her pretty face flushed and her pink lips parted. She turned away quickly, pretending not to feel his gaze. He chuckled, watching the other girls leave one by one. The red-head whispered to her friend, who looked over at him, then whispered back to Sansa with a giggle. The girls left soon after, and Sandor remained, wondering who she was. Clearly she wasn't used to someone like him openly staring at her, or she wouldn't have blushed and responded like that. Another woman would have either flirted back, or given him a dirty and disgusted look.

Somehow, the girl's shyness was more desirable than if she had batted her eyes and smiled at him.

He hadn't seen her again for the barbecue, and after he had eaten his fill Sandor had retreated back to the library. He had little desire to join the men in the large study room, where they were discussing politics and the up-coming war. The library was pleasantly cool and dark, and the couch was just long enough for him to lie down on while he nursed a glass of scotch.

He had just begun to doze off when he heard someone enter the library, and before he could sit up they began talking.

The boy's voice he immediately recognized as Joffrey's: no one else had such a self-satisfied, arrogant tone. The other voice was a quiet and sweet sound, and Sandor realized that Joffrey must be with the girl he had heard Cersei discussing the night before. Her name had been…something with an S….Sansa….Sansa Stark. That was it. The oldest daughter to the wealthy Ned Stark, who was good friends with Robert Baratheon.

The conversation reached the point where Joffrey let some of his cruelty shine, and Sandor couldn't resist taking a peek around the arm of the sofa to see the girl. To his utter shock, it was the red-headed goddess from earlier. She looked completely stunned and appalled at Joffrey's announcement. Sandor hid again, quickly. Joffrey was a fool. Margaery Tyrell was pretty, but she was nothing compared to this girl. Sandor suddenly became glad that this was happening, and that he was there to witness it. Not that he liked the thought of Joffrey causing her pain, but because she would now be free from the hell which had potentially loomed in front of her, and Sandor could now perhaps have a word with her… depending on how this ended.

Joffrey finished by telling the girl she was stupid, which caused him to bristle, but he waited until he heard someone leave the room. By the sniffling that started, he guessed it wasn't the girl. Suddenly something crashed against the mantelpiece, and Sandor decided to make his appearance.

His encounter with Sansa had not gone exactly as he thought it might, but it had been amusing and satisfying nonetheless. Joffrey was wrong: the girl wasn't stupid. And she was even more beautiful up close. It didn't take Sandor long to confirm his thoughts about her naivety. She was an innocent little bird, who somehow had managed enough courage to look him in the face and chirp exactly what she thought in that sweet, lilting voice of hers. He enjoyed making her flustered, as it seemed to be the way to bring out her spirit. And the more they talked, the more he decided he wanted her.

She had to know she was a beauty. She had probably heard it all her life. But Sandor doubted that she knew what her soft skin and large eyes and pink mouth could do to a man. Having consumed quite a bit of alcohol earlier in the day, Sandor felt brash enough to openly leer at her, drinking in her flushed complexion and scandalized reactions to his compliments. He was just being truthful about Joffrey, and about his own attraction to her, but apparently the girl was unprepared for such advances. Which, of course, drew him to her even more. To the point that he even told her what she needed was a man, not a boy. He wasn't sure if she had caught on to his implication, that the man she needed was _him_, specifically, because she refused to respond and instead fled the room.

Sandor leaned against the door frame, watching as she disappeared around the corner, grappling with the surge of desire coursing through him. He would have that girl. Sandor had always been gifted with a sense of intuition, and he knew that the girl had not rid herself of him so easily. They _would_ meet again.

A fresh burst of shouting erupted from the study, and Sandor reluctantly decided to go join them. Now that he knew who Sansa was, he was curious to see what her sire and brothers were like.

* * *

><p>Sansa found a space on one of the beds next to Jeyne and lay down, but she was anything but tired. The room felt hot and stuffy, and she tossed and turned, her conversation with Sandor Clegane ever present. To her surprise she realized she was not as upset about Joffrey anymore. She still dreaded all the questions and the whispers, but her heart wasn't broken like she originally thought it was. Somehow the shock of her conversation with Sandor Clegane had rattled her more than being horribly insulted by Joffrey. In fact, she couldn't even remember why she had thought him handsome before. In a few short minutes his entire character had changed before her eyes, leaving her disappointed but not devastated.<p>

How had Sandor known about Joffrey's true nature? He had worked for the Baratheons before, so he would know Joffrey better, she supposed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to push the image of Sandor's mocking smirk and dark eyes out of her head. He had been crude and ungallant, yet Sansa couldn't stop the small ripples of foreign delight at his comments.

_Woman. He called you a woman_. Sansa squirmed, biting her lip. What had he meant by telling her she needed a man? Surely he hadn't been suggesting himself? Sansa almost gasped at the thought. It was unthinkable. Sandor Clegane was certainly not a gentleman, or in any case a man of class and good breeding, and her parents would never approve of such a pursuit. Besides, he was probably too old for her. Sansa was not sure, since his scars gave him a rugged and weathered look, but she had to guess that he was close to thirty. Sansa had never thought of marrying someone so much older than her.

Then she kicked herself, groaning in frustration. Why was she even contemplating such a thing? Growing annoyed with herself, Sansa decided to put Mr. Clegane out of her mind, and resolved that if she saw him again she would avoid conversing with him.

This seemed to be an acceptable solution, and Sansa decided that she would no longer think on it until absolutely necessary.

The afternoon drifted by, and soon the ladies began wake from the naps and start freshening themselves for the dance. Some of them even changed into different dresses and adorned their necks with jewelry. Sansa tried to sneak past them but Jeyne caught her arm and pulled her into a corner of the room. "What did Joffrey have to say?" she asked excitedly. Sansa sighed, dreading this moment. She glanced around the room before answering. "He very rudely informed me that he was to marry Margaery Tyrell." Jeyne's mouth fell open. "What?" "Shhh!" Sansa gave her friend a fierce look. "Now is not the time to discuss it, and I have no desire to besides." She turned to a mirror and pretended to fix her hair and dress to avoid the curious glances from the other women in the room. "All I want is to dance and forget about it, for now." Jeyne touched her arm sympathetically. "Of course. We shall still have fun, won't we? Besides, Joffrey isn't the only young man here!" Sansa gave a strained smile, trying to block the image of a dark, brooding man leering at her.

The ballroom was one of the largest in the county, dripping in golds and reds with exquisite high-backed chairs arranged for those who did not wish to dance but still desired entertaining conversation. Servers brought around little glasses of champagne and other various drinks. By the time Sansa and Jeyne came downstairs the first dance had started, so they stood against the wall to wait. People were laughing freely and everything was so bright and merry that Sansa felt her spirits begin to lift. She was determined to have a good time, and show that Joffrey had not destroyed her day. When he whirled by with Margaery she turned to Jeyne and began to gush about the chandeliers, a smile plastering her face.

The dance ended, and two young men requested their hands. Giggling, Sansa and Jeyne accepted, and soon they joined the twirling couples, laughing and sharing secret glances with each other. The young man with whom Sansa was dancing was handsome, affable and courteous, and she found herself relaxing in his company and enjoying his little jokes and comments on the party, all the while being sure ignore Joffrey and Margaery if they ever came close.

On their third turn around the room, Sansa glanced over at a group of people socializing and with a jump she noticed Sandor Clegane staring at her. He lounged against the wall, a drink in his hand, and he was appraising her with a smirk on his face, echoing his expressions from the library.

He startled her so much than she lost her footing for a moment. The young man, Harry was his name, steadied her and asked if she was alright. "Oh yes, I am sorry, I seemed to have tripped on the hem of my dress," Sansa stammered, her cheeks growing warm. Her back was turned now, but she still felt Sandor's stare. He was probably laughing at her, and thought annoyed her more than it probably should have. "Would you like to sit down?" Harry asked worriedly. "Oh no, please, let's keep dancing," Sansa replied hurriedly. They continued around the room, rejoining the dance, but Sansa was too rattled now to pay much attention to Harry's attempts of conversation. A weed of self-consciousness had taken root inside her, and suddenly all Sansa could think about what whether or not she was drawing Sandor Clegane's attention. She felt that every movement she made was being scrutinized and evaluated, and it made her want to lash out and hide at the same time. What if he asked her to dance? The very idea made her almost stumble again.

The dance ended, and Harry kissed her hand and bowed away, no doubt looking for a new dance partner that wasn't such a clumsy bore. Sansa felt her face burn, and she retreated to a wall, taking refuge behind a group of older women who were fanning themselves and sipping wine. She forced herself to not search the crowd for Sandor's face, and instead focused on the dancing, pretending to be taking a break to catch her breath, although she had only had one dance. Hidden as she was, no young men came to find her, and Sansa began to wonder if she had lost her chance at redeeming herself. She loved to dance and was good at it, and it was shame that she was wasting time standing at the wall instead of making herself available. All because of _him_.

"Sansa, what are you doing?" She started and saw that Jon had joined her side. "Nothing! I just…" she bit her lip and glanced nervously at the dance floor, then at him. A warm smile spread over his face and he offered his arm. "May I have this dance, sister?" Gratefulness seeped through her, and Sansa sent up a silent blessing for Jon. He truly was one the best people she had ever met.

Her half-brother led her to the floor and they joined the dancing. Jon's easy nature made him companionable even when they weren't speaking, and Sansa felt safer with him. She doubted very much that Jon would hand her off to Mr. Clegane if the man came asking to dance with her. Jon knew things about people, and she was sure that he would agree with her opinion of the man: that he was a rude and insufferable individual.

They passed the next few dances chatting about various topics, until Jon glanced over her shoulder with a furrowed brow. "That man, the tall dark one, hasn't stopped watching you since we started dancing, Sansa." She knew who it was without turning around, but not wishing to explain how she already had met him, she glanced over as Jon twirled her. "He came into the study earlier, when the men were discussing the war. I believe his name is Sandor Clegane." Jon studied her face, and she wondered if he noticed her cheeks coloring. "He's very opinionated. Said some interesting things. Can't say I agree with him on it all, but he is definitely very informed." "Oh," was all Sansa could think of to say. "Is...is he still watching?" Jon glanced over again. "Yes." He eyed her curiously. "Maybe he wants to dance with you." "I doubt that," Sansa replied shakily, trying to laugh it off. "Why wouldn't he?" Jon asked teasingly. "Who wouldn't want to dance with the prettiest girl in Pennsylvania?" She couldn't help but laugh. "I doubt I'm the kind of girl he would be interested in dancing with," she said, hoping that would end the subject.

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't be too sure." "Why not?" "Because he's coming over." Sansa's mouth dropped and her heart stopped beating. "What…" "Mind if I cut in?" a deep voice rumbled behind her. Sansa turned and was horrified to see Sandor staring down at her before shifting his eyes to Jon. Before she could utter a word, Jon handed her off with a wink and a bow, and she found herself being eased back into the dance by Sandor.

Sansa was a tall girl, but her head was just level with his chest, and she felt incredibly small next to his imposing frame. One large hand had completely swallowed hers, and the other rested itself on her back, sending tendrils of heat through her dress. She hesitatingly placed her free hand on his shoulder and glanced up at him nervously. He was gazing at her, amused. "Enjoying yourself, Miss Sansa?" His voice was like a growl, and Sansa felt goose bumps rise on her skin. "I couldn't say," she managed faintly. Her hand in his trembled, and she wished desperately for some courage to return to her.

"Hmm." Sandor studied her, his mouth twitching. Dark hair fell over the scarred side of his face, and Sansa realized that the other side was somewhat comely. He had a very wild, untamed air about him, as if he had arrived to the party straight from the depths of the wilderness. As close as she was to him, she could smell alcohol mixed with a musky, thick scent. He had called her a woman, but Sansa felt more like a little girl, in a dress that was too mature for her age, and she blushed, thinking of how low the front had fallen. "Why are you dancing with me?" she blurted. "Because I want to," he answered simply. "Didn't you listen to your brother? 'Who wouldn't want to dance with the prettiest girl in Pennsylvania?' " Sansa's face flamed. "How did you hear that?" He grinned. "I have good ears. Only one of the reasons they call me the Hound." Sansa was confused until she remembered that Jeyne had mentioned the unusual nickname that morning. He moved to twirl her, and Sansa was surprised she kept her footing. Sandor pulled her back to him, closer than before so their bodies were just brushing.

Sansa hated the surprising tingle of pleasant warmth that spread through her, and she glanced up to meet his dark eyes watching her carefully and glinting with heat. _He acts as if he knows what I'm thinking, and feeling. _For a moment, the other couples melted away, and the music faded into the background, and there was only herself and Sandor Clegane, his black eyes entrapping her and pulling her into some dark and mysterious world that she was unsure she wanted any part of. He bent forward, leaning so that he could speak into her ear. "Would you like to know the other reasons they call me the Hound?" he murmured.

She never answered, for a loud shout was heard from the doorway of the ballroom. The music came to an abrupt end, and a murmur of confusion passed through the room as they all turned to see what had happened. A man stood before them, and he held a piece of paper in his hand. "I have news!" he shouted, even though the room had fallen silent. "President Lincoln has declared war with the southern States of the Confederacy!" A shockwave of shots and cries and cheers erupted in the room, and all the men hurried over to the messenger. Many people looked alarmed and began to edge for the exit. The Robert Baratheon was from the Northwest, but he had married into the Lannister family of the South, and the guests looked anxious about the announcement, wondering if it was appropriate to be inside the manse.

The dance floor turned into a swirling mass as people pushed and shoved, trying to find family members and friends. A large hand clamped on Sansa's shoulder, and she found herself being led away by Sandor, who parted through the crowd easily enough. He deposited her in front of Catelyn Stark, who was trying to keep Bran and Rickon from joining the group of men shouting excitedly. "It was a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Sansa," he rumbled, stooping down so she could hear him. "I look forward to it again." He nodded his head to Mrs. Stark, who looked at him in puzzled distraction. With a slight bow, he turned and rejoined the masses, his height allowing him to stand out. Sansa gaped after him.

It was only when they had returned to Winterfell and Sansa was braiding her hair for bed that she realized she had forgotten her courtesies and not thanked him in return.

A/N: Dun dun dun! The war is here! I apologize in advance if any of my history is a little off: I will try to do research so that facts are as correct as they can be. Also, this will mostly be a Sansa PoV story; I'm not sure if I'll add another Sandor PoV again, but I thought it would be nice to catch a glimpse of his insight before delving further into the story. Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter took me a while to sort out. Book references (from both GoT and GWtW) will be everywhere, mostly in the conversations. I've got some good stuff planned for the coming chapters, so if this was a little boring please bear with me!

Chapter 3

The war changed things more quickly than Sansa could have imagined. She had never held a desire to discuss it, or even think about it. She agreed with her parents' views on slavery, that it was a degradation to the human race and no one deserved, or should, be put in that position. The Starks didn't own one slave, and Ned made sure all their servants were paid well and looked after. The family business had survived for generations like that.

Robert Baratheon had held to that way of life as well, until he married Cersei. The Lannisters were one of the biggest owners of slaves in the South, and he had eventually fallen into the slave trade as well. Sansa remembered hearing her father arguing with him on the subject more than once, and it had chipped away at their friendship. It had chipped away at the entire country as well, until war had been declared as an only option.

War meant that men, young and old, were leaving their families to join the cause. Swarms of them gathered at the recruitment offices to enlist, each with their own opinion of the adventure and stories that awaited them. They would be hailed as heroes, the brave boys in blue, fighting for the freedoms of the United States.

Among those who enlisted were Sansa's brothers, Robb and Jon, and her father, Ned. Teary-eyed, she watched them silently from the stairs. They looked so brave and handsome in their uniforms, but Sansa could not find it in herself to be cheerful for them. Anything could happen in a war: what if one of them were killed? Sansa shuddered to think of it. Ned was holding Catelyn and speaking to her softly, no doubt giving her reassurances. He had served in the militia in his younger years, so he had been granted the position of colonel. Arya stood talking to Jon, looking envious. "It's not fair. They should let girls enlist too," she pouted. "Heaven help the Confederacy if they caught you!" Jon laughed. Bran and Rickon stood by, solemn and silent. Rickon had cried almost non-stop when he realized his father and brothers were going away. Sansa felt like crying too.

Robb approached her, and she barely managed to hold back a sniff. "Don't worry, Sansa, the war won't last long," he said gently, pulling her into a hug. The brass buttons on his coat were cold on her neck. "The Confederacy isn't nearly as strong as the North, everyone knows that." She nodded, more to reassure him than herself. Jon and Arya joined them, and they stood together in a tight circle, holding on to an arm or a hand and unwilling to part.

Ned called to them too soon, however, and Sansa waited till it was her turn to tell him goodbye. "Come back home soon, Papa," she whispered. "I will, Sansa. Take care of your mother. She needs you. Both of you." He opened his other arm to Arya, and he hugged the two girls close. "After all, Winter is coming." Then he pulled away, and after giving Catelyn a final kiss, he put on his hat and went out the door, followed by Jon and Robb. The servants had lined up outside, wiping tears and wishing them safety. Three horses had been brought up, saddled and packed with a few belongings. As her father and brothers mounted, Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes, unable to shake the feeling that she was never going to see them again_. I must be strong, like my lady mother,_ she thought, glancing at Catelyn. _I must be strong like the wolves of our family crest. _

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Sansa was busy, helping her mother run the household. Before the war, she had attended to her lessons, but she had always had time for fun, which consisted of leisurely strolls with Jeyne, riding her horse with Arya, or visiting town. And of course attending frequent parties and social events. Now, however, Sansa didn't have time for such things. The men were off fighting in the wilderness, and the women came together as a community to create support for the cause. Catelyn Stark became a great advocate in town, and she and many other mothers gathered together to sew uniforms and ask for donations. Sansa went with her, eager to be of help. Any of these uniforms might be worn by Robb or Jon, or Papa, she mused, and so she sewed buttons and pockets with care, proud of her neat little stitches.

Arya refused to sew, but she accepted a part in raising donations, and she spent whole days riding about the county and proclaiming the war effort. She would join their mother and Sansa in town when they came to get the newspaper. Every time they would join the masses of other women and boys too young to fight, reaching eagerly for a paper and almost tearing it apart as they read the list of names that meant a father, a brother, a son, had died. Sansa saw many names of boys she had known all her life, boys with laughter and futures, all reduced to words on a printed page. After gazing at the list and seeing neither Ned, or Jon, or Robb, they would look at the prisoner of war page.

And everywhere, the sounds of anguished women filled the air, crying as they realized a loved one would never come home. Then Catelyn would descend from their carriage and move amongst them, offering comfort and sweet words. Sansa wished she had the strength to do so, but all she felt was a numb sadness, watching the people around her. Arya would sit by her, perusing the rest of the paper, looking grim.

It was times like these when Sansa thought about Sandor Clegane. She had not seen him since the barbecue at Twelve Oaks, which seemed a hundred years ago, and she wondered if he had enlisted, and if so, what side he had joined. He was friends with the Lannisters, so maybe he had chosen the South. Sansa didn't like to think of him fighting against her father and brothers.

She wasn't sure when it had happened, but somehow Sandor Clegane had joined the list of names she prayed for at night. She always prayed for her father, and for Robb and Jon, and for some of the other men she knew, before reaching his name. She really didn't know him well; he had been crude and the thought of his frame towering over her still sent a shot of alarm through her body, but she did not want him to get hurt or die, either. Besides, it seemed the right thing to do.

One day they were in town for the news and Catelyn had once more slipped away to comfort the broken families around them, offering sincere smiles and hugs. Arya announced that she was going to go find a treat for Bran and Rickon, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. One of her friends, Gendry, had been listed as a prisoner of war. She jumped off the carriage and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sansa by herself. She sighed and glanced at the newspaper, then at the sea of sad faces around her. They were all wrong, she realized. This war wasn't going to end any time soon. It was already lasting much longer than everyone had said. A dark shape appeared next to the carriage, startling her from her reverie.

It was Sandor Clegane. He sat astride a large and fearsome black horse, wearing a simple shirt and coat. Unlike most men, he left his head bare, the slight breeze catching the dark strands of hair. "Miss Sansa," he spoke, nodding to her. Surprised, Sansa nodded back. What was he doing here? She watched as he raked his eyes over the people milling by before letting them rest on the newspaper in her lap. "Anyone you know?" he asked quietly. "Always someone we know," Sansa answered sadly. He looked grim. "Aye. That's what war is. It's a bloody waste, too." Sansa eyed him curiously. "Are you not fighting yourself, sir?" He snorted. "No, little bird, I won't be enlisting on either side. I've already done my time in the army, and I don't see much good it will do me to join again." His mouth twitched as he looked her up and down approvingly. "Besides, someone's got to make sure the ladies don't feel too neglected." Sansa's cheeks burned, but she fought to keep eye contact with him.

"Don't you care what happens?" she inquired. Sandor shrugged, easing his horse closer. "My work was not affected before the whispers of war, and it isn't now. I doubt it will be much after the war ends, either." "Why, what do you do?" she asked, then bit her lip for asking such a question. Sandor gave her a wicked grin that made her stomach flip-flop. "Well aren't we inquisitive today." He leaned in towards her, keeping one hand on the reins and placing and arm on the top of the carriage seat. "If I didn't know any better, Miss Sansa, I'd say you were trying to get to know me." She blushed furiously and shuffled through the papers in her lap. "Don't be ridiculous," she choked. "It was a simple question. There's no need to make it more than it is." A quick glance at his amused expression told her was not deterred. "Now, now, don't get your feathers ruffled, little bird," he said with a smirk. "I don't mind answering your questions, but I'd prefer to do it in a more…pleasing atmosphere." The comment made Sansa aware of the distress around her once more, and she felt her shoulders droop as a mother walked by, crying and holding a pair of woolen socks that her son no longer needed.

She turned back to Sandor Clegane, who had returned to a more proper distance but continued watching her with his dark eyes. The humor left his face, and he nodded to her gravely. "Until we speak again, Miss Sansa." Without awaiting a reply, he pulled his horse around and began guiding it through the crowd, leaving Sansa more confused than ever.

A few more weeks went by, and one morning Catelyn called Sansa to her bedroom. Sansa sat in a comfortable easy-chair, watching as her mother's maid fixed her hair. It was long and red like Sansa's, and she hoped that one day she would look as beautiful as her mother always did. When she was little she would play dress-up with her mother's long gowns and drape necklaces over herself. Sometimes Catelyn would let her use a bit of perfume from the little glass bottle that came all the way from Paris. It always made Sansa feel very grown-up, and even now she longed to open the vial and rub some on her wrists.

After the maid left, Catelyn turned to her daughter and held up a piece of paper, the wax seal broken. "I have received a letter from my sister, Sansa. Lysa has been very lonely since Little Robert died, and she desires that you come and stay with her for a while in Gettysburg. Would you like that, Sansa?" Sansa was surprised, and a feeling of excitement overtook her. Gettysburg was farther away in Pennsylvania, but it would be a fresh change of scenery, and perhaps a livelier escape. "I would like it very much, Mama. That is, if you can spare me here." Catelyn smiled at her. "You have been an enormous help to me, Sansa. I know it hasn't been easy for you to put aside your friends and usual activities. This war has caused everyone to make sacrifices, and it is good that we all struggle at some point in our lives. However, I think this trip would do you good, and perhaps bring back some of the color to your cheeks." Her mother patted her hand, and stood to walk to her desk. "I will write to Lysa and tell her you will be coming to her in a few days."

Walking back to her room, Sansa felt overjoyed. Aunt Lysa was a strange and somewhat flighty woman, but she had always been kind to her and preferred her to the wildness of Arya. No doubt she would introduce Sansa to all the best circles of society. It would be nice to have some entertainment after so long, she reflected. Perhaps there would be some parties or social gatherings, where they could discuss something else besides the war.

Three days crawled by, but finally Sansa found herself climbing into a carriage stuffed with her trunks and little boxes, and waved goodbye to her mother and sister and brothers. Arya had been quiet and sullen since she heard Sansa was going away, though Sansa wasn't sure if it was from jealousy or not. Bran looked calm as always, and Rickon was too busy trying to eat a grasshopper to notice his big sister's departure. "Goodbye!" Sansa called, waving merrily. "I'll see you again soon!"

The journey took almost two days because of the slow carriage, and Sansa and her maid stayed the night at a lovely inn which had received word of their arrival, and had fixed a room up for them quite nicely. Sansa was already beginning to rejoice at leaving Winterfell. She loved her home dearly, but it had begun to feel like a prison, and she longed for a brighter atmosphere.

At last she landed in front of her aunt's beautiful little house, and was greeted warmly by Lysa and all the servants. Her bedroom was smaller than at home but darling, with a big white bed and a bay window that overlooked the street. Gettysburg was not large, but it bustled with people, and Sansa soon found herself with many invitations to dinner parties and women's sociable, all of which she attended eagerly.

It was in Gettysburg that she learned something about Sandor Clegane. Apparently he had become a blockade runner, sneaking into Southern ports and smuggling goods and supplies back to towns in the North that were struggling from the war and their proximity to the Confederate armies. He frequented Gettysburg in between his trips, and Sansa heard the other women whispering about him occasionally. She was in the parlor with Aunt Lysa and her neighbor Mrs. Lucas when they began to speak of him. "He's certainly brave," Mrs. Lucas commented as she took a sip of tea. Sansa pretended to focus on her sewing, but her ears were alert with interest. "Hmph!" Aunt Lysa snorted. "Blockade runner or no, that man is a bad seed. Why, I've heard stories about him that would make your hair curl!" The two women glanced at Sansa, then leaned closer together, and she could barely catch their next words. "I heard he's a violent drunkard, always getting into fights in the saloons, and that when he worked for the Lannisters he was a mercenary." Mrs. Lucas, eager to gossip, decided to share what she had heard. "They say that he always carries a gun on his person, and one man said that he heard from another man that said he shot someone who tried to cheat him at cards, and he laughed about it after." "Rotten to the core," Aunt Lysa agreed. "A good-for-nothing. He'll cause trouble in town, mark my words." Sansa was shocked at what she heard, yet somehow it didn't seem too surprising. Something about him had always felt off to her, but she couldn't help but wonder how many of the stories were enhanced. He hadn't seemed that malicious to her, but who knew?

The ladies at a social later that week all confirmed that he was very bad man, prone to violent outbursts and altogether unsavory, and that they should all keep their daughters away from him. Sansa wondered what they would say if she told them she had danced with him before.

* * *

><p>A fundraiser for the war was planned, and it promised an evening of fun and enjoyment. It was for a good cause, after all, and the high society of Gettysburg eagerly prepared for it. Sansa rode to the event with Aunt Lysa, feeling beautiful in her new dress and shoes. It was a cool night, so she had worn her hair down in loose waves with just the sides pinned up. The party hall was already crowded when they arrived, and several booths were set up where they would be taking donations. The women in charge were asking for any little bit of gold and silver someone could spare, and coats and shirts and shoes. Sansa had spent hours sewing little American flags on dozens of handkerchiefs, and felt proud as she dropped them in one the baskets. <em>Perhaps one will go to my brothers and Papa<em>, she thought hopefully.

It didn't take long for the orchestra to strike up, and music filled the hall. The dancing wouldn't start until later, however. The mayor had planned a special fundraising event for that.

Sansa stood by herself for once, admiring how the boring hall had been transformed into one decked with red white and blue and gold. Everyone was dressed in their best attire, grateful for a distraction from the war and an opportunity to show how well the North was doing in spite of everything. Sansa suddenly felt homesick for Winterfell, and her family, and she unconsciously began to rub her arms, withdrawing into her thoughts.

"Cold, little bird?" came a rasp next to her, and she turned to see Sandor Clegane looming over her, his mouth twitching into a grin. He was dressed in finer clothes than she had seen him before, but he was still very underdressed compared to the other gentlemen in the room. "What are _you_ doing here?" she asked in surprise, and reddened. _How rude of me!_ She opened her mouth immediately to apologize, but he spoke first. "I'm here because I was invited, little bird." He eyed her as he took a sip of the amber-colored fluid in his glass. "And why are you so far from your nest?" Sansa felt annoyed and nervous in turns. What right did he think he had to give her a nickname? "I'm visiting my Aunt Lysa, if you must know," she answered stiffly, trying not to appear as shaken as he made her feel. Unable to hold his gaze, she shifted her eyes to the rest of the room, fidgeting with her hands. He remained next to her, however, occasionally sipping at his glass, but he didn't say anything.

Sansa realized that she really had no excuse to be rude to him. He was forward, true, and probably enjoyed baiting at her with his comments, desiring some kind of reaction. But she would not lose her courtesies in front of him. She would remain polite, and perhaps he would then be bored of her and leave her alone. _But do you really want him to leave you alone?_ The thought emerged unbidden, and Sansa quickly stuffed it away. A true lady did not lead a man on, especially a man like Sandor Clegane.

Gathering her wits, she asked, "How long will you be in Gettysburg, Mr. Clegane?" His mouth twitched as he glanced over her face. "I haven't decided yet. Still running the blockade." A spark suddenly glinted in his eyes. "But something has come up, so I think I'll stay longer than I originally planned." Sansa nodded, unsure of what to make of that cryptic comment. _Is he staying because of you? _Sansa almost gasped at her own thoughts. _Of course not! Don't be silly._ She looked up to see him smirking at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. All her efforts to be controlled almost vanished instantly, and she felt a snake of nervous fluttering squirm in her stomach. The room was becoming way too warm.

Just then Percy Anderson, a young man whom Sansa had become acquainted with at several social functions approached her and bowed, reaching to kiss her hand. "Miss Sansa, you are looking absolutely exquisite this evening." Instead of feeling pleased or flattered, Sansa felt a rush of embarrassment. She dared not look at the Hound as she struggled to return a polite smile to Percy. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson, you are very kind." "Please, call me Percy," the young man insisted with a smile, purposefully ignoring Sandor. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye showed that Sandor was giving Percy a look of distaste and a frown now pulled at his mouth. Sansa had no idea why she did what happened next. "Very well then, Percy." She gestured at the Hound. "Have you met Sandor Clegane?" Percy pretended to just notice the other man, which irked her. As if he couldn't see such a large man had been standing at her elbow. She watched as the two hesitantly shook hands, giving each other once-overs, and she was struck with how differently Percy compared to Sandor. He was slim, dressed in a fine grey suit, with light brown hair and eyes, and Sansa had thought him handsome in a way. But standing next to Sandor, he looked very young and overly stylish. She remembered Sandor's words from the barbecue: _You don't want a boy. You need a man. _Sansa flushed again, for she could see exactly who was the boy and who was the man

"Sandor Clegane," Percy said, trying to draw himself up and not look intimidated by Sandor's imposing form and presence. "I've heard a great many things about you." "I'm sure you have," Sandor responded, sounding bored. "I'm the type of man most people say things about." Percy glanced at Sansa, but she only smiled politely. She felt a greater twinge of annoyance towards the young man, thought she wasn't sure why. "Which is why it is a surprise to see you here," Percy continued, "and in the company of a lady such as Miss Sansa." He attempted to sound gallant, like he was shielding Sansa from something truly horrible, yet he had also managed to slightly insult her as well. All she could see was his pompous behavior and arrogance, which to her was decidedly in bad taste after what she had experienced with Joffrey. "I'm glad my reputation precedes me," Sandor responded, looking down at him coolly. "Though it seems you did not pay much attention to the details, else you might have chosen your words more carefully."

Sansa sensed something in the air change, and the whisper of danger radiated off Sandor in waves, and though he remained still and casual, his face had darkened with challenge, and she remembered the gossip from her aunt. Percy must have felt it too, for he took a step back, licking his lips nervously. Sansa found that she had no pity for him. He sniffed at Sandor with disgust and turned towards her. "Miss Sansa, would you perhaps like to get a drink? It would be my pleasure to escort you to more civilized conversation." Sansa bristled, and raised her chin in the air. "As a matter of fact, Percy, I was just asking Mr. Clegane if he would accompany me to get a drink. Perhaps another time." She reached over and looped her arm through Sandor's and smiled up at him. "Shall we?" she asked softly.

Sandor stared at her a moment before letting a smirk spread over his face, his dark eyes twinkling at her. "As you say, Miss Sansa." He began to lead her away, and Sansa glanced back to see Percy glaring at him with hardly concealed hatred, his face a fascinating shade of red. She bit her lip and tried to suppress a giggle, knowing that what she had done was frowned upon, but for the moment, she didn't care.

She looked at her hand which was resting in the crook of his elbow. It was so small compared to his arm, and even through the fabric of his coat she could feel the hardness of muscles underneath, and a blush crept over her cheeks. They arrived at a table filled with an assortment of drinks, and Sansa took a cup of punch while Sandor refilled his whiskey, all the while trying to avoid his gaze. She couldn't believe she had acted so…so...flirtatious, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she felt shy and a little ashamed.

No one else in the room had observed the confrontation, and now Sansa had no idea what to say to this man who seemed intent on constantly popping into her life unexpectedly. He was so unlike anyone she had ever met, and she had a feeling he wouldn't be interested in any of the usual topics of conversation. Sansa normally had no trouble conversing with others, but with him her mind seemed to be empty.

Sandor leaned over and placed his hand on the smooth marble pillar on her other side, so that his arm was in the air behind her. "So, little bird, are you going to be in town for some time?" She had crane her neck to look into his face. His scars were bad, she thought, and they still frightened her a little, but she forced herself to meet his eyes instead. It wasn't polite to stare, after all. "I suppose so. Mother hasn't sent for me to return to Winterfell yet." He seemed pleased by this answer, and Sansa began to muster up the courage to ask him about the blockade when someone suddenly called her name. "Sansa! Sansa, come here." Aunt Lysa materialized in front of them and took Sansa by the arm. "If you'll excuse us," she said in a strained tone to Sandor. Sansa's mouth fell open at her aunt's rudeness, but she was pulled away, and only able to mouth a "sorry" over her shoulder to the Hound, who wore an indiscernible expression, save for the amusement in his eyes.

Aunt Lysa marched her to the other side of the room. "Sansa, whatever are you doing, conversing with such a man! What do you mean by it?" "I-I…" Sansa was at a loss of what to say. "Haven't you heard anything I've said?" Sansa was horribly frustrated. "He's been running the blockade, and risking his life," she protested. "All for his own benefit," Aunt Lysa sniffed. "You steer clear of him, my dear. He's a bad sort, and not fit for your company." Before she could say anything, the Mayor, Mr. Wilkins, took the stage in front of the orchestra. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you all very much for attending this fundraiser. It is a privilege and an honor to…" he continued to spout off all the right words to say at such an event, and even though Sansa tried to listen but her mind continued to wander, mulling over what she had heard about the Hound and her own conversations with him. She determined that she would ask him the next time they shared a word.

"And of course, we have Sandor Clegane to thank for running the blockade for the Cause, delivering much needed supplies to our towns and our troops," the mayor was saying, and an applause was sounded in the hall. Everyone seemed to momentarily forget that he was a bad person. Sansa craned her neck and saw him still standing by the pillar, his mouth twitching, and he raised his glass towards the mayor on stage before taking a swig. Aunt Lysa muttered something under her breath.

"And now, the bidding for the first dance!" Mr. Wilkins proclaimed. "All donations will go straight to the Cause, clothing and feeding our brave boys in blue! Come on now, men, step up! Who are the lucky ladies going to be?" A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd, and several men began shouting out the names of women in the hall, raising dollar bills above their heads. $5.00 for Miss Kitty Parker!" $10.00 for Eliza Marsh!" Sansa watched as the other girls giggled and fluffed their dresses, smoothing their hair back so that their shoulders showed and waved at their suitors. As much as she wanted to dance, she wasn't sure she wanted to this way. What if someone she detested bid for her? That would be awful.

More than half of the ladies had been bid for when someone called out, "$10.00 for Miss Sansa Stark!" Sansa turned and saw with a dreadful sinking in her stomach that the bidder was Percy Anderson. A couple other young men bid for her as well, giving her a ray of hope, but it was dashed quickly when Percy raised the bid for $50, and the others stepped out. Her heart was sinking as Mr. Wilkins called, "$50 for a dance with Miss Stark! Anyone else?" Percy looked smug with victory, glad to be able to show off his wealth. $55!" a man with a deep voice rasped from the back of the room, and everyone turned to see Sandor Clegane making his way calmly through the crowd, which parted quickly for him. Sansa's mouth dropped as murmurs buzzed around her. Percy looked scornfully at him. $60!" he said triumphantly.

Sandor drew closer to the stage, not even sparing Percy a glance. "$70," he responded. The room had grown to a hush at his voice, rough as a saw on stone. Aunt Lysa was muttering angrily under her breath and clutched Sansa's arm, but she did not hear her. She couldn't take her eyes off of the Hound, his face impassive. "$75," Percy bid forcefully, giving Sandor a challenging look. "$80," he responded without hesitation. Sansa gulped and felt her face flush as people started to stare at her. So much money! Surely he couldn't continue after this! "$85!" Percy was almost shouting, though the room was quiet and there was no need. The Hound's dark eyes swung over and met Sansa's, and her knees turn to jelly. "$100," he said.

Percy looked outraged, but he would not back down. "$120!" He was digging in his pockets now. As one, the crowd turned to see what Sandor would do. Still calm, he raised his glass to his lips and before taking a sip he said, "$130." The whispers were growing louder. Several of the other girls were eyeing Sansa resentfully, jealous that they had not been bid for so much, and by a famous man like the Hound. "The man is mad," Aunt Lysa insisted. Percy glared at Sandor and raised his chin defiantly. "$150, and 62 cents!" The crowd held their breaths and leaned forward, eager to not miss a single moment. What a scene! It would be talked about in Gettysburg for ages.

Sandor, still looking at the mayor on stage, finally allowed a small smirk to pull at his mouth, the scars twisting."$200." Sansa sucked in a great lungful of air, astonished. Everyone else gasped audibly. No one had ever bid that much before, not for anything! The room fell completely silent in suspense, waiting for Percy's response. His face changed from red to purple, and he opened his mouth, but nothing would come out as he stared furiously at the Hound. "Ah…$200...going," the mayor managed to stutter. Percy turned and stalked away, pushing people over in his haste to disappear. "$200 for a dance with Miss Stark!" Mr. Wilkins pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. "Ahem, well…yes. Let's continue!"

Sansa stood frozen until she realized her aunt had fainted away, barely managing to fall into a chair. She gasped and began fanning her as some other women crowded around, asking for smelling salts and water. "Aunt Lysa! Can you hear me?" Her aunt raised a hand to her breast. "Oh…it's a disgrace…" she moaned. "What would Catelyn say? Her daughter dancing with the Lannister dog…" Sansa stopped fanning her and backed away, letting the other ladies hover. Her aunt's words made her uncomfortable, and she had had more attention towards her person than she would have liked. Turning, she almost ran straight into a Sandor Clegane's chest. "Oh!" Heat rushed through her as she stared up at him. "Little bird," he rumbled. "Do you wish to dance?" With a start she realized the bidding had ended, the musicians had struck up a song, and the couples were flowing to the dance floor. "Oh…yes." He took her arm and gently led her to the outskirts of the floor, holding her like he had the first time they danced.

Sansa figured she should say something to him, anything. She couldn't believe that he had bid $200 just to dance with her; how had he come across such money? Perhaps he was wealthier than she had been led to believe. She peered up at him to see that he was gazing at her still, always with that same amused expression on his face. "It's-it's very brave of you, to be running the blockade," she said slowly. His dark eyes fixed on her mouth. "No need to chirp your courtesies with me, little bird. I'd prefer you to tell me what you really think, rather than what you believe I'd like to hear," he rasped. Sansa was taken aback. "I don't know what you mean." "Of course you do. You've been taught well, little bird, to chirp and repeat all the pretty things you've been taught that a lady should say." Sansa had the feeling he was mocking her, and she frowned. "Well, I am a lady, aren't I?" Sandor grinned. "You are, but you're different. When I met you at that barbecue, I knew." "Knew what?" "Why, that you have spirit. That if you get riled up enough you'll say exactly what you think, and won't be afraid to do it either. Unlike the rest of these silly little fools who believe everything their mamas tell them and act on it. Which is what _you'll_ keep doing unless I teach you otherwise, I'm afraid. Though, I do find your innocence to be very endearing." She narrowed her eyes at him. She knew he was trying to trap her, but she could not help her temper flaring. "You're an insolent man," she responded. His grin only widened. "There, you see? I saw it when I first met you and I'm seeing it now. As for the blockade, it's a business to me and I'm making money out of it. When I stop making money out of it, I'll quit. What do you think of that?" Sansa was appalled. "I think that what everyone is saying about you is true." "Oh? And what is everyone saying about me?" "They say you are a wicked man." He threw his head back and laughed, drawing some stares from the other couples. "Well, that's true. I am very wicked man." Sandor smirked devilishly. "What else do they say?" "That you're a mercenary rascal." Sansa couldn't believe she was still dancing with him. Just when she thought he might be different than what everyone said, he was only proving them right!

"Exactly so," he agreed. Sansa felt frustrated. "If you don't care about the Cause then why did you bid two hundred dollars?" she asked. "You made quite a scene. Everyone is going to be talking about it." He shrugged. "I wanted to dance with you, and I wanted to see that Anderson peacock blow up like a volcano. Besides, you don't really care what they say, do you?" "Well…" "You aren't committing any crime, are you? Why not dance with me?" "But if Mother ever…" "Still tied to mama's apronstrings." "Oh, you have the nastiest way of making virtues sound so stupid." "But virtues are stupid. Do you care if people talk?" "A lady is supposed to care!" "At Twelve Oaks you didn't seem to care. Most other girls would have cried their eyes out and run home after what Joffrey did, but not you. You held your head up and danced. Now tell me again." "Oh, how you do go on! Fine, I don't really care that I'm dancing with you and people will talk." And to her surprise and chagrin, Sansa realized it was true. Even more annoying was that deep down, she _wanted_ to dance with him. "Very good! Now you're beginning to think for yourself rather than let others think for you. That's the beginning of wisdom." "Oh, but…" "When you've been talked about as much as I have, little bird, you'll realize that it doesn't really matter. Just think, there's not a home in Gettysburg that will receive me, all because I'm a scoundrel. Even my contribution to the Cause won't lift the ban." Sansa's mouth dropped open. "How dreadful!" "Oh, not at all. I feel quite free in spite of my tainted reputation." "You do talk scandalous!" "Scandalously and truly. A dog will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you right in the face." It took Sansa a minute to understand the dog was in reference to his nickname, the Hound.

"I think the song might be ending soon…Mr. Clegane, you mustn't hold me so tightly, I'll be mad if you do." He only chuckled darkly and pulled her closer, so she could feel the heat coming from his chest. "Will you really? You look gorgeous when you're mad. You have no idea how charming you were that day at Twelve Oaks when you were mad and throwing things." She groaned. "Oh, please, won't you forget about that?" "No, it is one of my most priceless memories. A delicately nurtured little Northern bird angrily breaking things in someone else's home. It was magnificent." Sansa had never felt so bewildered and off-balance in her entire life. "Oh dear, the song has ended. And here comes Aunt Lysa." As they stopped dancing, her aunt was making her way through the crowd, apparently revived from her earlier fainting spell. "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Clegane." Sansa curtsied just as her aunt grabbed her arm and began pulling her away. "My pleasure, little bird," Sandor rasped, shooting Aunt Lysa a nasty grin that made his scars look even more fearsome.

The rest of the night passed, and Sansa did not see Sandor Clegane again. When they arrived back at Aunt Lysa's home, she fled to her bedroom, eager to escape the almost non-stop lecturing pouring out of her aunt's mouth. After changing for bed, she went to a drawer and dug through it until she found the handkerchief the Hound had given her at the barbecue. She had no idea why she still had it, or why she had brought it with her to Gettysburg. In the corner was stitched three black dogs. Absently, she lifted it to her nose and took a sniff to find that it still smelled faintly of him; whiskey and cigar smoke and something else manly and completely belonging to him alone.

In the morning, as they breakfasted over waffles drenched in maple syrup, the news came: Confederate troops had invaded the North.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Gettysburg was thrown into a fit of anxiety and alarm. Many people could not comprehend the idea that the Confederate army had actually pushed the Union far back enough to be able to invade the North, and were now crawling along the borders of Pennsylvania.

Sansa wrote to Winterfell in alarm, and received a letter back that everything was fine, and everyone was in good health, relieving her for the time being. It was the last letter she received, for shortly after the roads were shut down to the mail coaches.

After one battle, wounded Union soldiers by the hundreds arrived to fill up the hospital, and Sansa joined many of the other women in becoming nurses. She knew little of medicine, but as long as she could provide a cool drink of water or wipe the sweating brow of a feverish soldier, she felt that she was doing some good. Sansa became a favorite for many of the wounded, because she always had a kind word to say and was willing to listen. Once she held the hand of a young man who told her of how she reminded him of his sweetheart, and he died shortly after. Sansa didn't even have time to pray for him because his body was immediately covered and taken away so that the bed could be used for someone else. She saw men with missing limbs, blood and puss seeping through bandages, and heard their cries of anguish as fever and pain rocked them. Even though she hadn't experienced a battle, Sansa could agree that war was, indeed, hell.

Aunt Lysa didn't exactly approve of her niece's participation in the hospital, but Sansa won her over, telling her how proud her mother would be and how she wanted to be there in case one of her brothers or father came in. Besides, the hospital was in desperate need of extra hands as the doctors and trained nurses were pulled from every direction. Just as they thought things might be improving, a new group of soldiers would arrive, and there was hardly any room for them.

Sansa had not really seen much of Sandor Clegane since the fundraiser in the weeks to come, but she had heard that he was continuing to run the blockade, and this time he was bringing supplies for the hospital. It was such a relief when the wagons would arrive filled with crates and barrels of medicine and wrappings and fresh linens. Sandor would be there, barking out orders to the men helping him, but they would only manage to share nod. _He's no gentleman_, Sansa mused, _but he's doing a_ _grand thing all the same. _As for the man himself, he was said to frequent the saloon in between visits, drinking and gambling. She felt a little put off by his actions, then wondered stubbornly why she even cared. It wasn't like she really knew him well, and he had never said that he would visit her, or that she should have any kind of expectation of him. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable tugging in her chest, she threw herself into the work at the hospital.

One summer night Sansa stayed later at the hospital than usual, flying back and forth to carry water and bandages and sew shirts, until Doctor McCreary caught her by the arm and told her to go home before she ran herself ragged. Agreeing, Sansa wearily started for her aunt's house. The night was calm, and few people were out on the streets. The hospital was not far from home, so Sansa felt perfectly fine walking. It was nice to breathe in the fresh air after being cooped up in the hospital, surrounded by bitter-smelling medicines and the metal scent of blood.

Her stomach rumbling with hunger, Sansa thought of the lovely pork roast that was sure to be waiting in the kitchen for her, and she decided to take a short-cut down a side street rather than go all the way around down the Main. She would have to cut across a darker part of town, but no one was about and Sansa was not worried.

As she went down the side street and entered the other side, she noticed the saloon on the opposite of the street. Yellow light poured form the windows, and she could hear loud guffawing from the men inside, who were no doubt drinking and playing cards. The upstairs windows were lit too, with gauzy-looking curtains that purposefully allowed dark silhouettes to be seen from outside. Sansa knew that was where men went to seek the company of certain women, but beyond that she was ignorant. She wasn't sure why a man would want the company of a woman who was clearly not a lady of any title or good society over a woman who was. As she crossed over to the other sidewalk, she heard a woman laughing, and looked up to see the silhouette of a man in the window. He parted the curtains and looked out, smoking a cigar, and a woman came and draped herself over his arm. Sansa was shocked to see she was wearing only a red corset and feathers in her hair. Scandalized, she turned away, when two men came reeling out of the saloon, laughing and talking. They caught sight of her one of them made a low, dramatic bow.

"Evening, little miss," he slurred. "Why don't you come have a drink with us?" "No, thank you," Sansa responded, hurrying away from them. They didn't follow her, but she could hear them laughing and calling out to her. She rounded a corner and bumped into something tall and hard. It reached out and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. "Oh!" She started to try to wriggle away when she saw who it was. "What are you doing out here at night, little bird?" the Hound asked. Sansa felt a small wave of relief. "I was going home," she answered meekly. The Hound peered down at her, and she smelled whiskey and smoke rolling off of him. Her stomach began to sink. _He's drunk._

Sandor grunted at her response, and one hand left her shoulder, raising a large bottle that was more than half empty to his lips and taking a swig. The night and the shadows hid most of his face, and Sansa was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He swallowed, then looked down at her up and down, swaying slightly. She felt like he was undressing her with his eyes, and she fought the urge to cover herself, even though she was more than properly dressed. "You're becoming quite a woman," he rasped, and his hand went to her hair, fingering the wavy locks. Sansa gulped, watching as he took another sip from the bottle. His hand went back to her shoulder. "You ever had whiskey, little bird?" She shook her head, wishing he would let her go home. "A bottle of good, strong, whiskey, all a man needs. Or a woman." He laughed harshly and turned, tossing the bottle somewhere and rubbing a hand over his face. "Drunk as dog, I am. Come, little bird, I'll see you home. Safe and sound." His hand remained on her shoulder, and he steered her back out onto the sidewalk.

Sansa's heart was pounding. She had never been alone with a drunken man before, and she had no idea what to say. She glanced up at him then looked away quickly when she saw him watching her. "Humph, can't bear to look me, can you?" he growled. "I know, I'm not one of those pretty boys you like so well, not with these scars." He suddenly jerked her around and bent his face to hers. A streetlight light the side with all the scars, and Sansa saw them closer than she had before, and they looked worse, somehow. "Take a good look, girl," he snarled, gripping her arms. "That's pretty for you, isn't it?" Sansa began to shake, frightened more by his anger than his scars. His eyes were filled with some kind of rage that she could not name. "Please," she whispered, feeling tears well up. He straightened, his face once again hidden by the shadows, and let his hands curl into fists at his side.

"Most people think it was an accident," he began in a low voice. "Something that happened back when I was a soldier. My father…he told everyone my bedding caught on fire." Sansa was frozen, gazing up at him. "There was a toy-maker that lived on the same street as we did, and some Christmas he made my brother, Gregor, and I tin soldiers to play with. I was six years old." Sansa was surprised. She didn't know he had a brother. "One day when my brother was out, I took his soldier and played with it. I don't know why, and it doesn't matter. Gregor came home and saw me playing with his toy, and without a word he picked me up under his arm, carried me to the fireplace, and pushed the side of my face down into the hot coals while I screamed. It took four men to drag him off me. Nine years later they made him the youngest captain in the army, and the Lannisters helped bestow him with honors."

Sansa stared at him, horrified, but now she was not frightened of him; she was frightened for him. She reached for his arm gently. "He is not worthy of any honors," she told him. He looked down at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed, making her jump. "No, little bird, he's not worthy of any honors. And one day, I'll kill him." They stood silently for a moment, before he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they continued walking.

After a few minutes they reached Aunt Lysa's house, and Sandor stopped before the little white gate. "Thank you for walking me home," Sansa said softly, hoping her words had soothed whatever turmoil was coursing through his alcohol-induced mind. He kept a hand on her arm, lingering. "If you tell anyone what I told you…" "I won't, I promise," she said quickly. Sandor's jaw clenched as he studied her "Good." Sansa tilted her head up to him, and she saw the pain and anger swirling in his eyes. "You won't hurt me," she said. He met her gaze steadily, then slowly released his grip on her arm. "No, little bird I won't hurt you." She nodded to him, then turned to walk up to the front door. She let herself in and locked it, then flew up the stairs, ignoring her maid's inquiries, and went to her bedroom. Pulling back the curtains, she looked down into the street. Sandor was still standing there, gazing up at the house. She realized how rumpled his appearance was: shirt half-tucked in, coat wrinkled, and his dark hair was longer and shaggier than usual.

He swayed a bit, reached into his coat, and pulled out a little flask, which he took a sip from. His eyes fell on her window, and she drew back, pulling the curtains together. When she looked out again, he was gone.

* * *

><p>Sansa continued her work at the hospital, but cut her time back so that she did not have to walk home at night. Not because of the Hound, but because of the other men she had seen by the saloon. And because her aunt complained that Sansa looked too tired and had dark circles under her eyes. "If you don't rest, you won't be able to help at the hospital at all," she declared, and advised Sansa to take a week or two off. She felt bad since more soldiers had arrived, but she agreed that if she was falling asleep or became ill herself, what good could she do?<p>

It was true, what her aunt said. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror one morning and noticed how pale she had become. Her cheeks lacked their usual pink color, and her eyes had grown tired and lost their sparkle. Some rest would do her good.

So for the next few days she dressed simply and took a seat in the parlor, writing letters to home and gazing out the window. Even though the roads were not yet open to the mail service, it made her feel better to write everything down, for she missed her mother and siblings terribly. Aunt Lysa often left on errands and visits, and she was alone except for the servants. As much as she knew she needed rest, Sansa began to feel restless.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and the sun was spilling through the parlor window invitingly. Lysa had gone to visit some friends, and Sansa once more sat at the little wooden desk to write to Arya. Engrossed in her letter, she did not realize anyone had come to the house until the doorbell rang. _Who could that be?_ she wondered, and waited as Milly, the head maid, answered the door. There was some muffled speaking, then Milly came to the parlor. She didn't look happy. "It's Mr. Clegane to see you, Miss." Sansa dropped her pen and stood quickly. "Thank you, Milly, please see him in." The maid frowned but returned to the front door. A moment later Sandor's giant frame filled the doorway.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt and dark brown pants, his coat thrown over his arm. His appearance was much neater than before, and she smiled, relieved. "Good afternoon, Mr. Clegane." She gave a small curtsy, as was proper and expected of a lady greeting a guest. Sandor's mouth twitched into a small grin. "Miss Stark," he replied. He looked as if he was going to say something else, but he caught sight of Milly, who was standing next to him with disapproval written on her features. "Milly," Sansa said quickly, "Would you please bring us some cold lemonade?" "As you wish, Miss." Milly gave a little bob and left, glaring at Sandor as she did so.

He watched her leave, then turned back to Sansa. "Would you like to sit?" she asked, gesturing toward a small couch that was pushed against the wall under the window. "Only if you sit next to me," he answered with a smirk and walked to the couch, placing his coat on the arm. Sansa blushed and sat on the other side, clasping her hands in her lap. Her heart was racing wildly at seeing him again. _What is he going to say? Does he even remember?_ He had been so drunk…Taking a deep breath, she raised her eyes, knowing he'd want her to look him in the face. He was studying her closely, his brows slightly furrowed. "Are you well, little bird?" he asked. "Oh yes, quite. I'm only tired, so I took some time to be away from the hospital. It's nothing." Inwardly she cursed that he would come see her today when she was so pale. Sandor pressed his mouth together and nodded. "That's a good idea. It's not healthy to for little birds to be closed up in stuffy buildings all day." His eyes fell on her hands in her lap, and Sansa wondered if he was going to reach over, when Milly came back in, bearing a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a little dish of cookies. She set them down on the tea-table and poured. "Thank you, Milly," Sansa said, hoping the maid would leave them alone. Instead, she nodded, gave Sandor a dirty look, and began dusting around the piano.

Embarrassed, Sansa glanced at Sandor. He was smirking at her, his eyes moving from the maid and back. "Really, Milly, dusting? And when your mistress isn't feeling well? You'll make her sneeze with all that dust flying around," he teased. Sansa almost choked on her lemonade. Milly whirled around, astonished, but her surprise was swiftly replaced by derision. "It's not proper for Miss Stark to be alone with a man like you," she snapped angrily. Sansa gasped. "Milly!" "Well, it's true, Miss! What will your aunt say if she knew he was here?" "She'd faint, most likely," Sandor quipped. Sansa felt the situation was quickly spiraling out of control. "Milly, I think you should go see if Cook needs any help in the kitchen." Milly clenched her jaw and flounced out of the room.

Sandor watched her, chuckling. "Think she'll set after me with the broom?" Sansa couldn't help but giggle. "She might." They both fell silent, and Sansa traced a finger around her glass, wishing she could break the tension somehow. _He should speak first_, she thought. Sandor shifted and leaned against the back of the couch, legs open, and his arm rested on the top. He was so big his knee brushed against Sansa's, and she felt goose bumps break out over her arms. "I'm surprised you let me in," he rasped in a low voice.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, puzzled. He shifted again, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "Don't pretend with me, little bird. I remember everything that happened the other night, and I'm sure you do too." Not exactly how Sansa had thought this conversation would begin, but she thought it would best to answer him. "I haven't told anyone," she said softly. He looked guarded. "I've never pretended to be a good man, because I'm not. I frightened you, didn't I?" She bit her lip, and nodded. "Only because you were so very intoxicated…and…your eyes were so angry," she whispered, hoping Milly wasn't eavesdropping. "Aye," Sandor agreed. "I am often angry, and more so when I'm drunk." He said it so calmly she wondered if he actually regretted any of his behavior to her. "You didn't hurt me though," she continued. Finally she saw a look of penitence flash in his eyes. "No, I didn't. And I won't hurt you, little bird."

The air seemed to clear, and Sansa felt herself relaxing a little more. She offered him a smile, and he returned it with a grin. "Now then, what are you doing with yourself if you're not at the hospital?" he asked. "Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Everyone is so busy, and even though I'm supposed to be resting I feel trapped. I haven't seen anyone for ages besides you." The words tumbled easily out of her mouth. "But I shouldn't complain, it's not nice." Sandor snorted. "Who cares about what's nice? Besides, you're not going to get better sitting around, cooped up like an old woman." He leaned forward again, so his knee brushed against hers. "I can take you out, if you like," he rasped. "You'd be out of the house and away from the clutches of Aunt Lysa. What do you say, little bird?" The idea was tantalizing and Sansa immediately pictured herself sitting next to the Hound in an open carriage, driving by the lake and enjoying the warm summer breezes. She could finally have some fun again, and forget about the war for a little while.

"Oh, I'd like that," she answered, smiling brightly at him, and hoping she didn't sound too overeager. Sandor smirked knowingly. "Of course you would. Don't fret, I'll put the pink back in your cheeks." He winked at her, and she giggled, feeling immensely rebellious, but she didn't care.

The Hound called on her almost every day after that, much to the dismay of Aunt Lysa and Milly. Sandor was always cordial but teasing to Lysa, and her aunt's face often turned various shades of red and purple when he crossed the threshold into her house. She tried to convince Sansa to tell him to refrain from visiting. "What will the neighbors think! What would your mother say?" she worried. Sansa would not be moved, however. "I shall see whom I please," she insisted, checking herself in the vanity mirror before heading downstairs. "If you will not admit him into the house, then we shall go out, and I will meet him elsewhere." Then Lysa would throw a fit, exclaiming how Sansa was supposed to be the good niece, not troublesome like Arya.

Sansa did feel guilty, causing her aunt stress, but it was so unnecessary! If only she would give Sandor a chance, she wouldn't need the smelling salts or worry about what people would say. So she would give her aunt a hug, and hurry down the stairs to the foyer, where Sandor would be waiting, a smirk on his face as he and Milly stared at each other, the latter with permanent glare.

Sandor often took her driving to a lake on the edge of Gettysburg. The weather had brought out other couples as well, and groups of young men and women, though the ratio was distinct, gathered in the soft grass and under the trees. They all stared in astonishment at Sansa, whom they had previously accepted among them, descend from a carriage on the arm of the Hound. Eager to avoid questions or remarks, Sansa hinted that she would rather walk, so they took a few turns around the lake, often stopping under a clump of willow trees farther away from the others. Sansa was so happy to be out that she was determined to enjoy herself, no matter how much people stared or gossiped.

The Hound was very unlike any of the young men who had ever courted Sansa. She discovered that he was almost thirty, older than other beaux girls her age normally had. He always acted as if nothing surprised him, and it seemed to amuse him to no end to see her get flustered when he teased her, to the point where she entered a speechless temper. Never had a man so simultaneously vexed and excited her, and Sansa hadn't a clue what it meant. For the most part though, his company was enjoyable, and Sansa found herself looking forward to his calls more and more.

Indeed, there was something exciting about him that she could not understand. It was thrilling to see his large body which made his entrance into a room like an abrupt physical impact, to see his scarred mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as his dark eyes scanned everyone else until they landed on her, and remained. He still intimidated her in many ways, but the more she got to know him, the more daring she became, and the exciting feeling intensified.

Aunt Lysa's words stuck with Sansa more than she would like to admit, however. What would Mother say if she knew her bright, pretty, dutiful and courteous daughter was accepting calls and carriage rides with a man like the Hound? She would disapprove, Sansa was sure, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She had always striven to be a good girl, and she knew deep down that it was naughty to keep seeing Sandor, a man who, most likely, had no intentions of marriage….but what was she thinking! Sansa wasn't even sure what his intentions were, exactly. The next time she saw him, though, all doubt and guilt disappeared from her mind, replaced by curiosity and nervous delight at his attentions. And as Catelyn Stark was not there, and writing was not an option, she decided to continue seeing the Hound for the time being.

Even after she returned to her work at the hospital and he continued to run the blockade, whenever Sandor was in town he would make it a point to see her, bringing various presents and bits of news. Once he brought some exquisite bundles of lace for her and Aunt Lysa, who had become flustered and insisted she could accept no such thing from him. Later that evening, Sansa had passed by her bedroom door, only to see Lysa holding the lace up and admiring it.

He continued to make crude remarks about everyone and everything, but their conversations had certainly grown lengthier and more diverse. He asked her dozens of questions about herself and her family and Winterfell, and listened attentively. Whenever she made the same inquires, he promptly told her it was better she didn't know. Sansa decided he was right, remembering the story of how his brother had pushed his face into the fire. She couldn't imagine what kind of life he must have had, growing up not only with those scars but with a monster for a brother. It softened her heart towards him, though he sneered and said he wanted no sympathy from anyone.

A couple of weeks went by before he returned from another blockade run, and this time he brought her a little gold pin in the shape of a bird. "Oh, Sandor, It's beautiful!" Sansa gushed, and she moved to the mirror that hung on the parlor wall to pin it to her dress. "Thought you might like it," he rasped, tossing his coat on the couch. His white shirt was unbuttoned a bit, allowing his strong neck and the very top of his chest to show. Sansa glanced at him through the mirror, pretending to fuss with the pin, until he came forward and turned her around. "Let me." She stepped back, shocked. "Sandor! You can't!" It was most definitely not proper for a man to pin something on to a woman's dress; it was too close to the bosom. "Why? Is Aunt Lysa lurking about?" Sandor asked, amused by her reaction. "No…it's just…" she knew her face was red, and she turned away from him, hurriedly pinning the bird. "There." Smoothing her skirts, Sansa faced him again, only to find that he had stepped closer. "You're blushing," he noted with a smirk. "What have I done now? You look as embarrassed as if you thought I was going to kiss you." Her mouth fell open. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, "I had no such thought." Then, with more forwardness than she thought she could have ever had, she added, "It's not like you would, anyways." Sandor's eyebrow arched, and Sansa could have bitten her tongue off. Oh, she was wicked! And it was all his fault.

Sandor suddenly stepped closer, with a glint in his eye, and Sansa pulled back in alarm as his hands came to her shoulders. "Sandor! You mustn't!" Panicked, she glanced at the doorway, expecting Milly or Aunt Lysa to appear at any moment. Sandor chuckled, giving her an impertinent smile. "Don't worry, little bird, I'm not going to kiss you here. Though you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how." Sansa wished the floor would open up and swallow her, as she stood there helpless as a child while he ate her with his dark eyes. After a moment, he released her and returned to the couch to sit, and she let out a breath she didn't she'd been holding. _I should feel relieved_, she thought. _But why do I feel more disappointed?_

The doorbell rang, and one of the maids answered. "It's a letter for you, Miss," she said, handing Sansa a thin envelope. "Thank you." Curious, Sansa turned it over. "I didn't know the mail had resumed." "Aye, a coach arrived not long after I got back, filled with mail from the past couple months," Sandor said. Sansa then saw it bore Winterfell's seal, and her mother's neat handwriting, and she tore it open hastily. It was dated more than a month ago.

_My sweet Sansa, it is with a heavy heart that your mother writes you. You must be brave, dear, for what I'm about to tell you. Word has reached us from the Union army. Robb has been killed during the Southern invasion. Oh, how it pains me…my son…my Robb…._

The letter trailed into ink smudges and tear stains.

_Your father is a prisoner of war, and Jon is nowhere to be found. We are trying to arrange for Ned's release, but it is of no avail. Arya….Arya has run away. _

_Oh, Sansa, how I need you by me at this hour! I know it is impossible for you to come yet, but it would give me strength to have you at my side. I pray that you will be able to return home soon, so that we may be together. Please write if you can._

_Love always, your Mother_

Sansa let the letter drop from her hands as her blood turned to ice. Vaguely she was aware of Sandor rushing to her side. "No…no…Robb…" a strangled sob escaped her, and she all but collapsed into tears, held up only by Sandor's arms. "Father…Jon...Arya…" Each name that escaped her lips left her wracking with more sobs. Her stomach churned and she felt that she might be sick. Pulling away from the Hound, she hurled up the stairs to her room, where she threw herself on the bed, the soft sheets soaking up her tears. Dimly she heard Aunt Lysa reproaching Sandor down below, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Robb, her brother, was dead. Her father might be dead too, and Jon. _Arya…_where had her sister gone?

A/N: Sad times :( Again, there were both books references. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And thank you to everyone who has been showing such amazing support for this story and the others, I can't do it without you!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Ah, this is one of the chapters I've been most looking forward to writing. Also, especially for coming chapters, let me know if I should change the rating. Not for sexual stuff or anything, but for violence and such. Or add some warnings.

Enjoy!

Chapter 5

Sansa took the news of her family badly. She stayed in her room for days, hardly eating and refusing to see anyone. Like Aunt Lysa, she wore the customary black dress as a sign of mourning. Sansa had always hated black; it was too grave and dismal. But she didn't care about it now. What did it matter what she wore? Her brother was dead, and possibly her father and other siblings. And there was nothing she could do. Traveling to Winterfell was out of the question.

Some days she sat at her window, staring miserably outside as the world continued to move on around her. Others she cried and wailed until Aunt Lysa threatened to call for a doctor to give her something to sleep, then she would plead and stuff her emotions away. She didn't want to sleep. Sleep only brought nightmares, creating images of her family in pain and death.

The Hound came to the house once or twice, asking to see her, but he was only a reminder of the day she received the terrible news, and Sansa had no desire to let him see her in such a state, so Aunt Lysa received him with indifference, and told him that "Miss Sansa does not wish to see anyone today." He would leave, and she would watch from her window as his large frame paused on the sidewalk, looking up at her, his face twisted into a sort of longing and frustration, before he would turn and continue down the street. Sansa knew it was wrong to snub him, but she just couldn't bring herself to have company, even his. She didn't want to be comforted and pitied; she wanted to be alone in her misery.

At last she decided she had had enough of being cooped up in her room, and she returned to the hospital, much to the shock of her aunt and the doctors, and threw herself into the work. "It's no good to just sit at home," she argued the first day when they tried to send her away. "I can mourn here just fine, and besides, you need help." It was true, after all. More soldiers had arrived to replace the ones that were healing and staying at the hotels, and Sansa flew back and forth all day, rolling bandages and attending wounds. It became so hot that she left off the black dress and adorned a plan cream and brown old one. In the evenings she brought bandages and blankets home, and she and Milly washed and pressed and ironed them, to be brought back in the morning. Cloth was too precious to be thrown away.

Working helped keep her mind off her family, and Sansa moved feverishly, unwilling to have much rest, because that's when she knew her grief would return, and everything would be too unbearable. She didn't see the Hound anymore, and she missed his company. _Perhaps I should write to him_, she thought one day as she sat by a soldier's bed and wiped his sweating brow. He should know that she wasn't ignoring him on purpose, really. Or that he had done anything to upset her. But she would come home at night, hot and tired and aching, and she would be too exhausted to do anything but bathe and fall onto her bed. _Tomorrow,_ she would think as sleep claimed her, _tomorrow I'll write to him._

The war continued, and there was word that the Union army had gathered somewhere north of Gettysburg. Only rumors about the Confederates filled the air, and Sansa disregarded them all. Until one day at the hospital, a soldier ran in with the news. "The Union and the Confederates are gathering at Gettysburg! There's going to be a battle any day now!" The hospital fell into a frenzy: nurses cried out, clutching each other, wounded soldiers yelled and tried to leap up from their cots and blankets. Sansa stood still, clutching a basin of water and a towel. "The Confederates here?" she whispered. Only Doctor Phelps kept his head. "Don't stand there gaping like fishes!" he barked out. "Get to work! There are men that can still be saved." He saw Sansa and grabbed her by the elbow. "You, come with me. I need assistance in the operating room." Sansa stiffened. She had avoided becoming involved with that area of the hospital. Fevers, and bandaging wounds, that she could handle. Operations…her heart sunk. "Come!" another nurse took her by the arm, and they followed Doctor Phelps across the room.

The operation room was really just a sectioned off area of the hospital ground floor, separated by a curtain. A man was lying on a table, groaning, and his leg was bleeding through his pants, A horrid smell was coming from it. Dr. Phelps rolled up the pants leg, took one look and nodded. "As I thought. Gangrene. It's got to go." "No!" the man begged, panting and sweating profusely. "No! Not my leg! Please…" "Son, it's either your leg or your life," the doctor told him. Another nurse took a cutting saw and handed it to him. The man tried to get up, but others held him down. "No! Please! Please!" "Doctor, give him something," one of the nurses pleaded. "We're out of morphine," Phelps said grimly. "Give him a stick to bite." Sansa was gripping the curtains, staring in frozen horror, as the saw began to cut into the man's leg, and he screamed. Then something in her snapped.

She turned and ran, pulling off her apron and sobbing. A nurse grabbed at her. "Sansa! Dr. Phelps needs you- "I don't care!" she cried. "I won't stay here another minute!" The man's screams echoed through the hospital, and she pulled away, running as fast as she could to the front doors.

A wave of hot air assaulted her as she stepped outside, and stopped short at the scene before her. People and carriages and horses filled the streets, shouting frantically and pushing, all of them trying to get somewhere. The numerous carriages kicked up dust, and Sansa coughed, shielding her eyes as she tried to figure out what was happening. A man pushed past her and she clutched at his sleeve. "Please, where is everyone going?" The man looked at her like she had grown an extra head. "Why, haven't you heard? There's going to be a battle here any day! Everyone is trying to leave town. No one wants be here in case the Union falls." He wrenched away from her and was lost to the crowd.

Sansa wasn't sure what to do. "Everyone is leaving?" It made sense…her heart was gripped with anxiety, and she began to push through, eager to get back to Aunt Lysa's house. If everyone was getting out of town, you could be sure Aunt Lysa would be among them. Sansa was jostled roughly, forwards, side to side, and even backwards sometimes. The dust stung her eyes, yet she couldn't stop for fear of being swept away. The distinguished Gettysburg civilians had turned into a stampede of panic, and Sansa realized the more often than not she was fighting against the tide. She barely missed being run over several times, and was almost knocked down by a group of men.

It took her much longer to reach home than usual, even with the shortcuts. Some streets she had to avoid because they were completely congested, but finally she managed to get to her street. In front of Aunt Lysa's house was a carriage, already stocked high with boxes and bags, and she saw Milly and a couple of the other servants around it. Footsore, she hurried to up to them. "Oh, Miss Sansa!" Milly exclaimed, and immediately began ringing her hands. Sansa leaned against the fence to catch her breath. "Milly, what is it?" The servant only stood there, biting her lip and muttering like a fool. Then Aunt Lysa herself appeared, dressed with her bonnet resting haphazardly on her head and putting her gloves on. "Oh, Sansa, there you are! Isn't it absurd! A battle, here, of all places! Mercy on us!" Her aunt approached the carriage. "I only just found out," Sansa panted. "Wait and I'll grab my things." Aunt Lysa turned to her quickly. "Oh no, dear, I'm sorry, but the carriage is full, and I have to have my maids with me. Mercy! I would take you with me, but there's too much!" Sansa froze, staring at her in disbelief. "You mean you're leaving me?" she cried. Aunt Lysa looked nervous and frazzled as one of the male servants opened the carriage door. "I'm sorry, my dear, but there's nothing to help it. Now if you want to leave, run down to Mrs. Merriweather's, they'll have room, I'm sure. Now I must leave! The Confederates! Here, in Gettysburg! Mercy!" Sansa had no strength left to protest as her aunt and the servants bundled into the carriage. "Goodbye, Sansa! Be a good girl!" Her aunt called, and they were gone in a cloud of dust.

Her head pounding, Sansa gripped the fence once more to steady herself. "Coward," she whispered. After a moment she managed to turn and walk down the street to the Merriweather's house, but they had already left too, according to the servants who had stayed behind. She went next door, and those people were gone too. Miserably, she wandered all the back up the street. She had to leave! She had to get home! But there was no one else to go to, no one else would take her…except maybe…just maybe…

Filled with renewed purpose, Sansa rushed down away, back into the raging swarm of people, a single destination in mind. He had to be there, he just had to be.

The late afternoon had been setting when Sansa left the hospital, and now it was approaching dusk when she finally emerged out of the fray and stood before the saloon. To her surprise, the inside was filled with laughter and talking. Were these people mad? Who could think about cards at a time like this? She mustered her courage and stepped inside past the swinging doors. The large room was filled with smoke and the smell of alcohol. The tables were filled with men playing cards and drinking, and one man pounded away lustily on a piano in the corner. A few women meandered around the tables, pausing to speak to a man or watch a game. They were dressed in corsets and feathers and rouge, and Sansa averted her eyes from them. She scanned the big room, but did not see him anywhere. Anxious, she slowly crept by the wall, trying to remain invisible, searching, searching.

A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. "And who might you be?" a man with crooked teeth asked her, a bottle in his other hand. "I'm…I'm looking for someone," Sansa stammered. "Please let go." He leered at her, much to the encouragement of the other men at his table. "Could be I'm who you're looking for," he laughed, jerking her closer. He smelled like vomit, and Sansa cowered away from him. "I said, let me go!" She pulled her wrist away and tried to run, but the main grabbed her around the waist. "C'mon, honey, don't play hard to get now." His face was close to hers, and he started dragging her away from the wall. "No! Let me go!" The laughter around her suddenly stopped, and she looked up to see the Hound standing in front of them. His face was twisted in fury, his grey eyes turned to black and dangerous. He towered over the man who was still gripping Sansa by the waist. "You heard the lady. Let her go. I'm only going to tell you once," he growled. The man gaped incredulously at him, before giving a snort. He was obviously too intoxicated to realize his position. "I saw her first," he slurred. "Go find your own girl, Hound." He tugged at Sansa again, and suddenly a crack filled the room. The man released her and stumbled back to one of the tables, yelling and grasping at his chest, where blood had begun to seep through his shirt. Stunned, Sansa saw that the Hound was holding a pistol, a small wisp of smoke trailing from the barrel. She hadn't even seen him pull it out.

Sandor calmly put his pistol back into a holster he wore around his waist, and placed a heavy hand on Sansa's shoulder. "Anyone else see my girl first?" he asked, his voice rough and hard. No one answered him. The man slumped to the floor, moaning, and a couple of his friends wandered over to help him. Sandor moved his hand to her back and steered her out the front doors. Behind her, she could hear the saloon continue in cards and talking, as if nothing happened.

Sansa was shaking as Sandor led her to the other side of a building. "Little bird, what were you thinking, going in there?" He paused and took in her appearance, and his face softened slightly. "Why are you here? I thought you would have flown away from town already with Aunt Lysa." Sansa finally found her voice. "I…Aunt Lysa left...I came home and she left…" Sandor looked disgusted. "What? Bothersome old hen…" Sansa sniffed, and took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Sandor…would you…could you…please…I need you to take me home. To Winterfell." He studied her, brows furrowed. "That's a suicide mission, little bird," he said. "That way will be crawling with Confederates, heading for Gettysburg. Besides, don't you want to see the battle? It could be historic." He was grinning now, and Sansa glared at him. All the hurt, the frustration, the pain from the loss of her family, and the brutality she had witnessed in the hospital finally gathered and burst forth. "No. I don't care about seeing any stupid battle!" she cried. "I just…I just want to go home! I don't care how dangerous it is! I want to go home! I want my mother!" She began crying in earnest now, feeling half-ashamed that she should let him see her so.

Sandor waited until she had calmed down a bit and was wiping her face on her sleeve before he pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief and gave it to her. Then he placed his large, warm hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer, staring into her watery blue eyes. "If I take you to Winterfell," he began slowly, and Sansa's heart jumped, "What's in it for me?" Her mouth dropped open. "W-what?" "It's a perfectly simple, honest question, little bird," he said, tucking a hair behind her ear. "I've told you before I don't do anything without getting something in return. So, what would I get out of this?" Sansa was speechless. She had not expected to have to offer him anything. What could he possibly want? "I-I would be forever grateful, and indebted to you," she began. He twisted his mouth. "Hmmm, yes, I would take you home, you and your family would repeat all the pretty words they should say, and send me on my way, and you would get on with your life. No, that wouldn't do at all." Sansa clueless. "Do you want money?" she asked. He shrugged. "I could, but I'm pretty set with money."

He pulled her a little closer, and Sansa could smell whiskey on him, though it wasn't nearly as potent as that one night. His eyes fell to her mouth for a moment. "I'll take you to Winterfell," he said, "If you promise to marry me."

Down the street, people continued to shove past one another, but Sansa no longer heard their voices and the sounds of horses and carriages. She no longer heard the raucous laughter floating from the saloon behind them. Time had stopped, and all she could do was stare up at the Hound, thunderstruck, as his words sunk into her mind.

"M-marry you?" she sputtered, not sure she had heard him correctly. Sandor gave a slight huff of impatience. "Yes, girl."

"B-but…I didn't think…you were a marrying man." The words sounded cruel as they left her mouth, but Sansa was too shocked to take them back. His mouth twitched. "I'm not. But…" he studied her features, and his grey eyes became serious. "I want you. More than anything or anyone I've ever wanted in my whole life. And it looks like the only way I'll have you is to marry you." Sansa's mouth had gone dry from gaping at him, and she quickly closed it swallowed, feeling dizzy. "My family…my parents…they won't allow it…" he smirked again. "I think they will, once they've seen I've brought their precious little girl home." Sansa clenched her teeth, and felt anger surge through her. "You're a black-hearted scoundrel," she hissed. "If you cared so much about me, you would take me home without expecting such a _reward_. A gentleman…" "If I'm going to risk both our necks to bring you home, then I'm going to be sure you'll be mine. And I thought you made it clear the first time we met that I wasn't a gentleman," he interrupted, a frown spreading over his features. "I'm not a good man. I've done a lot of bad things in my life. That man I killed back there is just one more to the number." He ran his thumbs over her shoulders, and Sansa shivered from the touch. She wasn't afraid of him, but she was appalled by his attempt to blackmail her into marriage in return for taking her home. "However…" his voice grew softer, as much as it could. "I would be good to you. If you were to be my wife, I would take care of you. You would want for nothing. No one would ever try to hurt you again, or I'd kill them." Sandor took a breath. "You'll never find someone more loyal than I would be. I would never seek out the company of another woman like so many of these _gentlemen_ do."

He was telling the truth, Sansa knew as her blue eyes met his stormy ones. _He wants me…_But could she really agree to marry this man? What would her family say? He wasn't as bad as some people, she knew that by now. He was rough and ungallant, often angry, but he had obvious interest in her…enough to kill for her. Sansa's heart fluttered oddly at the thought. She was completely thrown off by his demand, but she discovered that the idea wasn't unappealing. She had been attracted to him for months, perhaps longer, and the strange exciting feeling coursed through her as she conjured images of them as a married couple. He was a giant man, strong enough to protect her, and fierce. He was certainly not the husband she had always pictured for herself, but…

"Do you want to go home?" Sandor asked her, and Sansa's attention snapped back to him. She realized she hadn't said anything for several long moments. "Yes," she whispered, and her decision was made. She lifted her head again, trying to steady her voice. "If I am to marry you, all I ask for two things…aside from bringing me home." Sandor blinked, but he nodded encouragingly. "After we get home, and…the time is right…you will propose to me properly." Sandor chuckled. "Always the lady. Very well. And the other?" Sansa took a deep breath. "You must promise to try not to drink so much." He flinched slightly at that one, and Sansa could tell by the guilty look that crossed his face that he was remembering that night. "Aye, little bird, I agree." Relieved, she offered him a small smile. "Then, yes, Sandor, I will marry you."

He let out a breath, and smile spread over his face; not a smirk like she was used to, but a genuine smile. "Good. It's settled then. Now listen, run back to your aunt's house. Pack a small bundle, only what you absolutely need. If the Union wins and the house still stands, I'm sure you can send for the rest of your things later. I will meet you in front of the house in ten minutes." Sansa nodded, gulping. "Go now, little bird," he said, giving her a gentle push, and she turned and flew down the sidewalk. _Home. I'm going home._

A/N: I had about six different ways their conversation could have gone, and this was the one I went with. Not entirely sure I'm happy with it, so there might be some editing in the future, but it's here to stay for now. Isn't Sandor a devil? ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa hurried to Aunt Lysa's quiet, dark house. The servants she had not taken with her had scattered, and it seemed strange not be greeted at the front door. She flew up the stairs and threw open her bedroom door. After quickly lighting the lamp by her bed, she went to her closet and looked over her dresses nervously. There were so many pretty ones that she did not want to leave behind, but Sansa knew this wasn't practical to worry about such things. She reached in and pulled out a plain blue dress that she had worn sometimes to the hospital. It would be easier to move around in since the skirt wasn't very full. Rolling it up, she stuffed it in an empty pillowcase, then moved to her desk.

All her money, letters, and a few items of jewelry went into the pillowcase as well, along with another pair of underthings and her hairbrush. Gazing about the room, Sansa bit her lip and decided that would have to do. She prayed that Aunt Lysa's house would remain intact when the battle was over.

Finished, she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. Luckily the servants had left some food behind, so she stuffed some apples and biscuits into the pillowcase. In the cupboard she found a little canteen and filled it with water. A knock on the door made her jump, and she hesitantly opened it. Sandor stood on the step, filling the doorway. "All set, little bird?" he asked. She nodded. "Good." He took her bundle from her and headed down to the front gate. Sansa hurriedly shut and locked the door, though she realized that might not be worth it. Turning, she saw Sandor waiting for her next to his gigantic black horse, and she froze.

"Come, little bird, he won't hurt you," Sandor called, extending his hand. Sansa walked up cautiously. "Only one horse?" she asked. Sandor chuckled. "Yes. It's easier and faster to travel this way. Up you go." She gave a yelp as he suddenly picked her up by her waist and settled her astride Stranger's saddle. Sansa had never ridden a horse this way, and she tugged at her skirts, trying to arrange them so that they wouldn't be caught in the stirrups. Sandor mounted behind her, and she gulped as she felt his warm chest against her back, and his arms went around either side of her to gather the reins. "Ready?" he asked. "Yes."

Sandor led Stranger down several streets, attempting to avoid more of the crowds. So many people had left already, but Sansa could see several dark groups lurking around corners and in front of stores. When they reached the end of the Main, she gasped in horror as they came across the general store, its roof in flames. A group of men stood in front, arguing over things that had been thrown out into the street. Sandor cursed behind her. "What are they doing?" she asked. "Looters," he answered, steering Stranger away. "People can turn on each other pretty quickly in situations like this. They panic like rats on a sinking ship." She shivered and unconsciously leaned against his chest, as if Sandor's large frame could hide her completely.

One of the men looked over and saw them. "Hey, a horse!" he called. The others dropped what they were doing and started running towards them. Sandor pulled out his pistol and fired once at the ground in front of them, and they paused. "Come a step closer and the next bullets go through your heads," he barked. The men glanced at each other uncertainly. Stranger snorted and stomped one of his hooves, earning a dark chuckle from Sandor. "Or maybe I'll let my horse bash your brains in. Take your pick." Sansa didn't realize she was shaking until the men finally backed away, clearing the road for them. Sandor urged Stranger into a fast canter, and soon she could see the edge of town.

The Union had begun arriving and setting up lines. Sandor muttered something under his breath and paused, looking about. "What is it?" Sansa asked him. "The Confederate army must be closer if they are already here," Sandor answered. "It'll be tough getting through their lines; stopping us to ask questions and that sort of thing. We'll have to find another way out." He pulled Stranger to the left and they blended into the shadows down another street. Sansa had never even seen some of the ways Sandor led them down, but finally they entered a small clump of trees somewhere on the outskirts. Sandor slowed Stranger to a walk, and the horse stepped carefully over dry twigs and rocks. The moon had risen opposite the setting sun, half-covered by clouds and casting an eerie light through the branches over them. Sansa understood silence was imperative, and she felt that even her breathing was loud.

Finally they broke through the trees onto a rough road, and Gettysburg was behind them at last. A surge of hope filled her. They still had a long way to go, but they were a little closer to Winterfell every moment. Soon she would be home with her mother and brothers, and she could forget the nightmare that had followed her like a black shroud. Or at least be able to bear it more bravely, since she would have her remaining family with her. Perhaps they had even managed to get her father back already.

Her thoughts were jerked away as Sandor suddenly set Stranger into a gallop, and she clutched at the saddle. For a long time they set a hard pace, neither of them saying anything. Unused to riding astride, Sansa's bottom and thighs quickly became sore, but she didn't dare complain. Sandor's arms around her kept her secured in the saddle and from moving around too much, so that helped. She was tired as well, having been up late the night before and working in the hospital earlier that day, and the jolting of the horse kept her from relaxing, though Stranger's gait was smoother than most horses she had ridden.

The sun was just barely peeking over the hills, an orange after-glow staining the end of the sky, when Sandor finally slowed Stranger to a walk and then stopped him. "Alright, little bird?" he rasped in her ear. She shifted uncomfortably, but not from his closeness. "Yes. Why are we stopping?" "Letting the horse rest for a while. Stranger is strong, but he's used to carrying only myself. Not that you weigh much, little bird." He swung off the saddle and led Stranger over to a dilapidated fence near a small clump of trees and tied his reigns. Sansa watched him shyly, suddenly realizing that she was completely alone with him. There was no one around for miles by the looks of it. _He won't hurt me,_ she thought in an attempt to reassure herself, _he promised. _Still, the lessons in propriety that had been drilled into her since childhood began to crowd the forefront of her mind.

Sandor gazed around them for a few moments, then returned to her side and reached to lift her out of the saddle. Sansa clutched at his arms as he lifted her as easily as he would a doll, and set her on her feet. Feeling a little wobbly, she held onto him for a minute. "Thank you." She expected him to let her go, and she began to step away, but he held on to her arms and pulled her closer. "What are you doing?" She wasn't sure why she was whispering, there was no one around. Sandor reached up and ran his hand through her hair, a peculiar look covering his face as the shadows mixed with his features. "I'm going to take that kiss now," he rasped. Sansa gaped at him, completely derailed. "How can you be thinking about kissing at a time like this?" she exclaimed. He gave her that amused, mocking smirk she both loved and hated so much. "What better time is there? We're racing right in the direction of the Confederate army like a couple of fools. It's a bloody miracle we haven't been caught yet. And I'll be damned if I continue on with this hair-brained scheme without getting a kiss from my bride-to-be."

His arms went around her waist and shoulders, so that she could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her breast. A warm rush of bewilderment, fright, and anticipation crashed over her, and Sansa felt as limp and helpless as a newborn, and his arms were pleasant to lean upon as all the danger of their circumstance seemed puny in comparison to this moment.

Then Sandor's mouth descended on her own, and all thought and any protestations vanished from her mind. He kissed her heatedly, his lips burning against hers and they encouraged her mouth to move along with his own in a strange, sensuous movement. The scarred part of his mouth was surprisingly smooth and not rough as she had expected. He gave her bottom lip a little nip with his teeth, and she gasped slightly, allowing his tongue to enter her mouth. He tasted of whiskey and mint, and Sansa heard a low growl rumble in his throat when she timidly touched his tongue with her own.

He broke the kiss and bent her body back, so that her neck was open to him, and he leisurely trailed kisses up and down her throat. Sansa's eyes had fluttered open at this, but they shut again as pulsing flashes of cold and hot traveled through her skin, and her hands shook as they came to wind around his strong neck for balance.

Gradually he brought his face back to hers, and planted one more kiss, softer and slower this time, but he kept her body pulled against his, touching her hair. "There. You have no idea how much I've wanted to do that. Now I can face possible death as a happy man," he rasped teasingly, and tilted her chin up. Sansa's mind was completely blank, and all she could utter was a soft, "Oh…" Sandor's eyes darkened considerably, and he chuckled. "Watch how you pout your lips at me, little bird, or I'll be tempted to kiss you again." Sansa blushed then, and realized her mouth had fallen open in the shape of an O. She snapped it shut and swallowed, wishing she had something more elegant to say. She wondered if he could hear or feel how rapidly her heart was beating.

He stepped away, and reached for the saddle bags. "Might as well eat and rest ourselves. We have a long night ahead of us." Shaking herself out of her stupor, she followed him to one of the trees and they sat down. Sandor looked into her bundle and pulled out some of the food she had packed. "Well done, little bird." He handed it to her, and she felt a small trickle of pride. _I'm not completely helpless. _From his own bag he handed her a slice of cheese, and they ate silently, drinking water from the canteens. Sansa was still trying wrap her head around what had happened earlier. So that was a kiss! She had heard other girls whispering about the kisses they secretly shared with their beaux, and Sansa decided that hers and Sandor's had been much more thrilling than what she had previously imagined. She had thought her first kiss would be chaste and soft, but Sandor's had been hot and needy, like he wanted to devour her. Her blush returned, and she snuck a peek at Sandor, who was sitting against the tree with his legs spread out lazily. She jumped when his gaze met hers.

"What are you thinking?" he asked quietly. Sansa started to chew her lip, but stopped when she noticed his eyes drop to her mouth. It was so utterly strange, to be discussing something as intimate as a kiss. But Sandor was to be her husband, after all. Maybe it was alright to talk to him about it. "I've never kissed anyone before," she admitted shyly, peeking at him again. He grinned, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. "Haven't you? Well then, it's a pleasure to introduce you to the act, Miss Stark. You'll inform me if you should desire any additional assistance in that area, won't you?" Sansa frowned at him, feeling embarrassed. "I shall do no such thing," she declared. "How dare you laugh at me. That's the last time I bring up the subject." She crossed her arms and turned away, knowing she was acting childish, but she didn't care. Sandor only chuckled, and suddenly he had moved behind her, his hands going to her shoulders. "There, there, little bird, don't ruffle your feathers at me." Sansa tried to ignore the pleasant warmth that radiated from his closeness. "I would have been surprised if you had kissed someone before. You're not the kind of girl that gives away kisses freely." Sansa was unsure if that was a compliment or a slight. She sighed and relented. "You're so very exasperating." He gave a harsh, barking laugh. "That I am," he answered. "It makes things more interesting though. You wouldn't like me half so much, if at all, if I was all meek and compliant like those boys you used to surround yourself with." Sansa gave up arguing with him, but she had to admit she did prefer his rough, callous, brash behavior. And the fact that her preferences had changed so drastically frightened her a little.

Sandor stood up. "We should leave now. Best to travel in the dark." He helped Sansa up, and gathered the saddlebags. A cool breeze drifted around them, bringing the distant smell of rain. Sansa shivered. Even though it was summer and had been rather hot earlier, the night air was much cooler, and her sleeves were very thin. Sandor saw her rubbing her arms when he truend to lift her into the saddle. "Cold?" She nodded. "A bit." He immediately shrugged out of his coat and placed it around her shoulders. Sansa put her arms in the sleeves. They were much too long, but she rolled them up so her hands were freer. It smelled like him, dusky, smoky, with a hint of whiskey and something else that could only be described as masculine. Once she was ready Sandor lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her, and they set off once more.

They didn't gallop like earlier, and Sansa found herself growing increasingly weary and her eyelids felt full of sand as she struggled to keep them open. When her head began nodding Sandor spoke. "Try to get some rest, little bird. I'll wake you if need be." He shifted behind her, and Sansa leaned against his chest, the back of her head resting against his shoulder. His arms held her more securely to keep her from falling to either side. His warmth and the coziness of his coat helped assuage her fears, and in spite of the danger he was constantly complaining about, she felt perfectly safe.

But as soon as she closed her eyes, Sansa's mind crowded with images from the hospital. Again she saw the young man screaming as his leg was being sawed off, and her eyes immediately opened again with a choked sound in her throat. "Something wrong?' Sandor asked her. "I keep thinking about the hospital…there was a young man…his leg was infected, and the doctor started to cut it off, and I couldn't turn away at first…" a small whimper escaped her lips as she wished she could forever erase that image from her mind. If only she could shut out the sound of his screams. Sandor was quiet behind her. "Aye, that's hard to see." He leaned down so his face brushed against her hair, and Sansa didn't mind. "Think about Winterfell, then," he suggested, his voice rough as stone, yet somehow soothing. "Think about your mother. Think about all the pretty dresses I'm going to buy you when we're married, along with all the lemon cakes you could possibly want, served on a silver platter." Sansa couldn't help but give a nervous giggle. "Are you trying to butter me up?" "Perhaps," he chuckled. "Is it working?" She smiled, and felt him nuzzle her temple with his nose. She wondered briefly if she smelled bad; she hadn't had time to wash up before they left Gettysburg. Sandor didn't seem to think so as he continued to nuzzle her and Sansa heard him inhale near her ear. "You always smell so sweet, little bird," he murmured, and chuckled when she blushed. He straightened back, sitting so that her head continued resting against him, and after a few moments Sansa was swayed into sleep.

A/N: Hooray for kisses! ^o^ Kind of a shorter chapter, but they will get longer again.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Alright, back by popular demand is a Sandor POV. This chapter will be split between him and Sansa. Sandor's POV will mostly involve reflection on past events leading up to where they are now, and if any of his thoughts are a bit…disturbing? well….that's Sandor for you. He's not a good person, even where Sansa is concerned. At least right now.

Chapter 7-part 1

Never, not once, had Sandor ever thought he would be put in this kind of position. Running the blockade had been a dangerous undertaking every time, but it was the kind of danger you got a high from; it caused your blood to pump with adrenaline, it was exciting, and a generous reward waited on the other side. Sandor had been in his line of work long enough to be the best at what he did, which was why, when he'd offered his services to the Union, they had readily accepted, willing to turn a blind eye to his past crimes and dealings with the Lannisters.

Now here he was, one of the most dangerous men in the United States, going on a fool's mission to return the little bird to her nest. Sandor decided he really couldn't complain, though. If they survived, the reward for fulfilling his part of the bargain was going to be very nice indeed. Marriage had never really crossed his mind before. No woman would accept him without seeing a fistful of dollars first, and Sandor had accepted long ago that that was all he had going for him. Although he knew his body was attractive enough, hardened and tough from years of work and labor, the scars on his face deterred most women from even glancing his way. He was an ugly bastard, there was no denying it. Even the women he visited in the saloons, for all their purring and fondling, would wince at his scars and try to stay on his good side. Plus, his reputation wasn't exactly a gold star either. There was hardly a town anywhere that hadn't at least heard of the Clegane brothers, and Sandor was just as feared for his brutality as Gregor, though he usually didn't leave as many bodies in his wake. Sandor showed up, did his job, and moved on. Gregor took his time…

Sandor had gradually worked less and less with the Lannisters, and began to accept other jobs elsewhere, mostly ones that took him out west. It was easier to blend in there, away from proper society and civilization. The rough crudeness of the deserts and little towns were much more suited to his taste, and Sandor found work easily enough as a bounty hunter and smuggler. After a couple years though, he had been asked by Tywin Lannister himself for a special job, and Sandor had returned to the North, where the Lannister family was currently residing at Twelve Oaks. And there he had met Sansa.

All the years of self-loathing and bitterness towards his brother for ruining his face had seemed to blur when he saw her. Sandor wanted her, badly, and it was enough to push him to test the waters with her. Sandor had never had trouble saying what he thought; he preferred honesty and bluntness over lies and sugar-coated words, even if the truth was hard to swallow. The girl's polite chirping frustrated him, but he accepted the challenge of pushing her buttons, finding the chinks in her armor. It was amusing and delightful to see her get fired up: her blue eyes sparked and her cheeks would turn a delicious shade of pink. After the party he had never expected to her again, but after running into her once more near Winterfell, where she had shown curiosity about him, Sandor decided that if he had the chance to see her again he would pursue her. Discovering her presence in Gettysburg had even more firmly sealed that resolution.

Sansa had seemed surprised at first by his scars, maybe even frightened a little, which was nothing new to him, but she surprised him in turn by being able to look him in the eye when they spoke, to stick her chin out resolutely to show him that he couldn't scare her. Sandor was unused to anyone being able to look at him without at least a particle of distaste or disgust, but the little bird's eyes showed none of those things. In fact, as much as she blushed and stammered, she seemed to be flattered by his words and spontaneous reappearances into her life, and Sandor eagerly drank in her smiles like the dog that he was. He wasn't surprised, however, by Sansa's aunt's aversion to him, and her attempts to keep her niece from associating with him. Despite his "heroic contribution" to the cause, Sandor's reputation had followed him to Gettysburg, and he was simultaneously shunned and glorified. None of it mattered to him, but he would not let it deter his advances on the little bird.

Sandor knew she probably had dozens of handsome suitors already, each jumping at the bit to have a dance with her, and it grated his nerves as he watched them from across the room, eyeing her and showering her with eloquent little compliments. It was enough to make him want to strangle someone. His presence at her side, thankfully, seemed to dampen their hopes, and Sandor watched smugly as the young men sought other partners after noticing who Sansa was standing with. Except for that Percy Anderson fellow. The over-stuffed, over-confident little ass had sidled right up and flaunted himself to Sansa. Sandor had itched to wrap his hands around the boy's neck and throttle him, but Sansa's reaction had proved to be much more satisfying. He had truly been taken off-guard when she put off Percy's invitation, and then she had taken a hold of his arm and smiled so sweetly up at him, batting her eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from howling. Sandor very rarely allowed his ego to be stroked, but in that short time, and later after he out-bid Percy, he had indulged in silent gloating and self-congratulation.

Once she volunteered at the hospital, it was harder to see her, along with running the blockade. The night she had stumbled upon him near the saloon, drunk out of his mind, had been the first time they had talked since the fundraiser. Sandor had been so sure later that he had blown it any possible chance he might have had with her. The girl couldn't possibly desire to see him again after his behavior and the horrible story he'd told her. There were parts that were a bit blurry, but Sandor gathered enough to know his actions had not painted him in the best light. He was already unfit as a suitor for her, but it hadn't mattered what anyone else thought as long as Sansa had been willing enough.

He didn't know what could have possessed him to tell her the secret of his scars. The girl awakened a longing in him, and the moment she had placed her hand on his arm to comfort him, Sandor, even in his drunken state, knew he was gone. Everything else faded and became background noise, and Sansa became the sole object of his desires. And he knew he wouldn't stop until he possessed her.

Certain she would slam the door in his face, Sandor had dared to visit her shortly after that night, and the girl surprised him once again by inviting him in, and she even giggled and smiled at his remarks. What she saw in him Sandor had no clue, but he would be buggering idiot to refuse her company. Their little outings developed into Sansa's own personal rebellion towards propriety and what had been crammed down her throat since she was a child, and it gave Sandor no end of pleasure to know that he was the one tainting her and encouraging her to cast a blind eye to what was expected of her as a lady. It wasn't considered proper for her to accept his kind of flirtations, or for her to return them, yet that was exactly what she did. Her innocence and sweetness continued to draw him in, and he liked nothing more than to say something scandalous and watch her eyes grow wide and her mouth form that perfect little 'o', before she blushed and giggled behind her hand or reprimanded him. Sandor decided that she was somehow fascinated by him, for he was surely unlike anyone else that she had ever known. He was more than happy to fuel her curiosity with his frequent visits, and he watched as she became more and more comfortable being in his presence, showing obvious interest in what he had to say. It was more intoxicating than the whiskey he loved so much.

When Sansa received the news about her family, it had nearly driven him mad when she refused even his company. He knew she was grieving, but he thought she would have wanted comforting. Apparently none from an ugly dog. After being turned away the third time he came to see her, Sandor gave up, and chose to bide his time. The girl couldn't stay shut up in that house forever. He didn't know that she returned to her work at the hospital until the day the news came about the battle looming on the horizon for Gettysburg, and he had thought she and her aunt would have left town. Annoyed, frustrated, and thirsting for the burning taste of liquor, Sandor had intended to hole up in the saloon, drinking and gambling and sulking. Then the little bird had stumbled in, hair in disarray and gazing about with frightened eyes.

To be honest, he had figured she would want to return to Winterfell as soon as possible. It was only natural that she would want to seek out the comfort of her remaining family. Sandor knew as soon as she asked him to take her that he was really her only chance, and he used that his advantage to set the wheels in motion. Asking her to marry him before this had been an outrageous idea. It would certainly never be approved by her family, and Sandor was frustrated with the little options he had left. He could continue to court her until some other younger, more handsome man snatched her up, or he could ask her to be his mistress. The latter was entirely out of the question, of course. No matter how warm the girl had become towards him, she would never willingly allow herself into that position. She was too good, too pure. The former option was much more likely, which proved to only sour his mood as he thought of the nameless suitor that would one day marry her. Maybe he could kill him and carry the little bird away…but no, that wouldn't work either. Nor would kidnapping her before any sort of marriage took place. They would constantly be on the run and Sansa would surely fight him every step of the way.

Once Sansa had appealed to him for help, however, the opportunity was just too enticing. There she was, pleading and crying, completely and utterly alone and vulnerable, with no one else to turn to but him. If he returned her to her family, they would probably want to reward him in some way, as long as he left as quickly as possible, and she would be out of his life once more. But…if he got her to promise to marry him, on her honor as a Stark, it would be much harder for them to get rid of him. The Starks were famous for their honor, and this was what Sandor counted on when he finally revealed that this was what he wanted from her. Sandor resolved that she would belong to him, even if it meant blackmailing her into marrying him.

At first he had been worried she would refuse, and try to foolishly make her way to Winterfell some other way, but he saw the desperation in her eyes, and he waited restlessly as she mulled over the agreement, no doubt weighing her options. If she was going to agree, there wasn't much time, so Sandor gently prodded her in the right direction, hoping to soften her with his promises and words of loyalty. They were true after all; Sandor had meant every one of them. When she accepted his offer at last, it was as if Christmas had come early.

Now here they were, riding through the darkness, hoping to go unnoticed by the approaching army. The little bird was sleeping soundly, tucked against his chest. His coat swallowed her small frame, but Sandor liked how it looked on her. Her head rested against his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to study her face. She truly was a beauty. And she was going to be his wife. It was almost too good to be true. Could this delicate, smart, pretty little creature truly be meant for him? Sandor wondered if perhaps it was all a dream, but then he remembered their kiss from earlier, and the memory of her soft, sweet lips shyly opening up for him made his blood run hot, and he knew he wasn't imagining things. This was real, and if they were lucky enough to make it to Winterfell, she would be his. The thought made his mouth twist into a wicked smirk, and he pulled her closer to him, wrapping one arm around her torso while his other held the reins. He lowered his face to her red curls and breathed her in.

Sandor was unsure of what the girl's thoughts were towards him. She had to be attracted to him to some measure; she enjoyed his company even though she often grew flustered and complained of his teasing or crudeness. More than once he had caught her gazing at him when she thought he wasn't looking, and her eyes hadn't been directed at his scars. But aside from that, her feelings were a mystery to him. She had agreed to marry him, yes, but Sandor did not want her to resent him for it. As much as he wanted her, he did not want her to hate him, and there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that she might try to wriggle her way out of their arrangement once she was safely back at home, with her family on her side. He would just have to convince her that she would be happier with him than some buggering gentleman who would never appreciate what he had, most likely throwing her to the side once she had borne him a son or two. She might never love him, but she would always be able to count on Sandor's devotion and loyalty.

He breathed in her scent again, and Sansa stirred slightly, her arm coming up to wrap around his arm, pulling it closer. Sandor adjusted himself so that she looked more comfortable, and the movement bared her white throat to him. He gazed down at the smooth skin hungrily, barely resisting the urge to press his mouth to it. He needed to stay alert and not let his desires get them killed because he wasn't paying attention. There would be time later.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and the smell of rain grew stronger. The air was slowly becoming more humid, and Sandor knew they were going to get poured on soon. He would have to find some sort of shelter for them; he couldn't have the little bird catching a cold.

The sound of voices suddenly reached his ears, and Sandor quickly pulled Stranger to a stop. Listening, he could make out a faraway rumbling that wasn't the thunder. "Damn. Little bird, wake up!"

A/N: The other one will be coming soon! And it will be Sansa's POV again, and much longer. Hope you liked reading some of Sandor's thoughts and seeing how he views the situation. As I've mentioned before, he's a difficult character for me to grasp, so if he seems a little OC please let me know. I will accept any advice!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7 – Part 2

Sansa jerked awake, startled by the Hound's harsh voice in her ear. "What is it?" "Hush," he rasped, bringing the horse to a stop. He climbed off, and she immediately missed the warmth he had provided her, until he reached up and pulled her off as well. He grabbed her by the elbow and began leading them down a small hill. It was black as pitch and Sansa clutched at his arm, trying to keep from stumbling. "What is it?" she asked again, in a whisper this time. "Soldiers nearby," Sandor grunted. "Hear that?" Sansa cocked her head, and heard the distant sound of many hooves and men's voices. A cold hand squeezed her heart as she realized the precariousness of their situation, and she looked around them anxiously. Stranger seemed to sense something was wrong too; the large horse snorted angrily and whinnied.

They reached the bottom of the hill just as the dark sky opened up and began to unleash a pounding of unrelenting rain. "Under here, quickly!" Sandor barked, tugging at Sansa, and she gasped when she felt cold water splash up around her ankles, rising higher until it swirled over her knees. The rain ceased falling on their heads, and Sansa discovered that they were under a small bridge, standing in a river. Lightning flashed, and for a moment she saw Sandor pulling Stranger's reins so that horse was under the bridge as well, before it went dark again. Gulping, she shivered and hugged herself, once again grateful that Sandor had given her his coat, then felt badly that all he had was a shirt. Blindly she reached out and felt for him, squeaking when a strong arm suddenly snaked around her waist and pulled her against Sandor's wet chest. "Not a sound," he murmured. Sansa froze, wondering what was happening. What about the soldiers? They were coming!

Then as suddenly as the rain had begun, Sansa heard the whinnying of horses, the shouts of men grew nearer, and the bridge thundered above. She covered her mouth with her hand. The Confederates were right over them! Mixing with sound of the heavy rain, the army clattered over the bridge, crossing over to the other side, intent on heading for Gettysburg. Blood pounded in Sansa's ears as she cowered against Sandor, praying that they went unnoticed. The Hound grasped her tightly, running a hand over her shoulder, while the other kept a firm hold on Stranger's reins. Once the horse snorted loudly, and even reared, but it only mixed in with the sounds of the horses crossing over head.

For a long time they stood in the churning river, cold and silent, waiting for the soldiers to finish their crossing. Sansa's legs grew tired and stiff, and despite Sandor's body heat she was beginning to shiver harder. The river splashed up around them, dampening Sandor's coat and more of her skirts. And still the soldiers kept coming. When would they finally go away? Goosebumps raced along her skin, and her footing slipped slightly. She clutched at Sandor desperately for purchase, and unknowingly brushed herself up against him. His arm held her steady, but she heard a rumble in his chest. Confused, she peered up at him, unable to make out his features until lightning brightened the sky once more, and she saw his eyes roaming over her, black and intense. With a growl, he lowered his head until she felt his mouth nibbling at her ear and neck.

Sansa was too baffled to even gasp. What was he doing? He yanked her closer, if that was even possible, until her chest was flush against his own, and he ran his nose up and down her temple, breathing hard. Bewilderment flooded her, and she stood still, not knowing whether to focus on his touch or on the danger that threatened their very lives. The Hound's mouth replaced his nose, and he kissed a trail down the side of her face to her neck, his mouth hot on her cold skin. She shivered and her stomach felt full of squirming snakes as an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable feeling spread through her. The impropriety of the situation screamed at her, but shattered into pieces when at last Sandor's lips found her own, burning and needy. Electric shocks jolted her as he urged their mouths into that strange dance once again, and Sansa wondered if he had perhaps gone mad.

All at once, the pounding on the bridge stopped, and the rain lessened. Sandor bit her bottom lip gently, making her jump, before pulling away and raising his head, listening. The army could still be heard, but their movements were fading quickly. He let out a breath and patted her shoulder. "Come, little bird, let's go." He led them back out to the bottom of the hill and up to the other side, walking until they were far enough away from the bridge. Sansa's legs throbbed from the cold water and from standing tensed for so long, and more than once her knees nearly buckled. Sandor noticed and quickly lifted her into the saddle, but he remained on foot, leading Stranger by the reins. Sansa leaned against the horse tiredly, wishing she was stronger. What must he think of her? Probably that she was a weak little girl, a child, incapable of handling the slightest hardship thrown her way. The thought made her glum.

The rain had softened into a mist by the time they finally stopped. Sansa wearily peered at the large building that loomed in front of them, its outline barely visible in the dark. Sandor handed her the reins and walked towards it, almost disappearing except for the ghostly white of his shirt. He came back shortly. "It's an abandoned barn," he told her as he took the reins. "Not much to it, but it's dry. We'll stay there for the rest of the night." Sansa nodded wordlessly as he helped her down and followed him inside the barn.

It was musty, and one section of the roof had caved in, but there were piles of hay still left, and the rain couldn't get to them if they stayed away from the hole in the ceiling. Sandor put Stranger in a stall and unsaddled him, tossing their bags to the ground and whispering words to the horse that were apparently calming. Sansa stood as if in a daze, swaying slightly until she finally made her way to the bags and sat down, drawing her knees up. Sandor knelt beside her and began to pull the coat off of her. She clutched at. "What are you doing?" "I'm not having you get sick, little bird," he snorted. "You'll need something dryer around you." Feeling foolish, Sansa meekly let him have the coat. He hung it on a nail to dry, then fished through her bundle. "Here, little bird, get out of that wet dress and put this one on." Sansa took the wrinkled dress she had packed earlier and stood, looking around anxiously. She was certainly not going to change in front of him, betrothed or not!

Sandor noticed her hesitation and smirked. "There's an empty stall next to Stranger," he said. "Don't worry, I won't peek." Sansa glared at him and marched away with a huff. When she was sure he couldn't see her, she quickly peeled the wet dress off and slipped into the dry one, already feeling warmer. She squeezed the rest of the water out of the fabric and hung it to dry as well.

With no better reason to stay in the dusty stall, she returned to their little camp, coming around the corner just in time to see Sandor slipping a dry shirt over his head. She came to halting stop, staring. She'd known Sandor was muscular, but…this! Dim moonlight shone through the door of the barn, allowing her to see that his chest was massive, carved and flexing lightly as his arms were raised in the air, tugging the shirt over. A scattering of dark hair trailed over his muscled abdomen, ending at the top of his pants, and she caught a glimpse of some old scars. Then the shirt dropped down, and she hastily averted her eyes, blushing, but Sandor had seen her. He blinked at her, adjusting his collar, then he grinned wickedly at her, baring his teeth. "Like something you see, little bird?" Sansa wanted to die, she was so extremely embarrassed. Why, oh, why did he have to catch her ogling him like some backwoods servant who had been taught nothing of what was proper?

He stepped closer and she could see the residue of rain water glistening on the dark chest hair that poked out from the top of his unbuttoned shirt. The smirk never left his face, and Sansa found herself rooted in place as he drew nearer. "You still look cold, little bird," he said, his voice deeper. "Come here and let me warm you." His words shook Sansa from her stupor, and she backed away. "You presume too much, sir, and take far too many liberties!" Sandor stopped then, and he gave her a confused look. "I only meant that I was going to risk building a fire," he rasped, his rough voice taking an innocent tone. Sansa blinked at him, surprised, and felt ashamed. "Of course. Forgive me." His mouth twitched and he chuckled. "And don't call me 'sir'. You know my name." She nodded, feeling horribly small and wishing she could disappear. After a moment, he turned away to one of the empty stables, where he pulled some loose boards for kindling. In no time he had a little fire blazing bravely, though Sansa noticed he didn't get any closer to it than absolutely necessary. _His scars_, she thought, and it made her sad.

Sitting on blankets, they ate the same food from earlier, but Sandor roasted some beef he had brought and it was simple yet delicious. Now warm, Sansa was beginning to feel drowsy again, and she watched as Sandor cleaned his pistols, her knees drawn up under her chin. His hands worked fluidly and with expertise, knowing exactly what went where. It was strange to think how those same hands, so rough and calloused, could also be gentle. Her mind flashed back to their kisses and how he had held her, and she was unable to hold back a soft sigh.

Here in the barn, Sandor looked much more rugged than usual. He had always exhumed an air of masculinity and strength in a brutish, harsh way, but now that he was away from town and out in the outdoors, his ruggedness was displayed with ease and confidence. _He enjoys this_, Sansa thought. _He prefers to be out in the open than closed up in buildings._ It didn't surprise her, but Sansa tucked the information away in the little corner of her mind where she kept all that she knew of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound had glanced up at the sound of her sigh. The firelight flickered of the scarred side of his face, making them look red and fearsome, but it didn't bother as it once might have. Not now that she knew the truth about them. Their eyes met and they stared at each other for countless minutes until Sandor shifted and fitted his guns back into the holster. "You should get some sleep," he told her. Sansa stood up to fix her blanket so that it made a more comfortable bed. There was a stack of hay nearby, still soft, and she spread the blanket over a clump, pushing and prodding it with her hands until she was satisfied with the results. "Making a nest?" Sandor asked from where he lay on his own blanket, stretched over the ground not far away. His hands rested behind his head and he watched her openly. The fire had dimmed down into a glow, and Sandor's eyes glittered like black coals. "I suppose so," she answered lightly, and lay down, hoping sleep would claim her quickly.

It did not, and Sansa found herself staring up at the barn roof, thinking about her engagement to the Hound. The notion was still new, and she chewed it over and over in her mind. "Sandor?" she whispered. "What, little bird?" the man grunted. "Where will we live? When we're married, I mean." Sansa had no idea if he owned a house somewhere. Hopefully it wasn't in the South, but if it was she, as his wife, would be expected to go there with him.

"I don't know yet," Sandor answered. "My family's property is in the Southwest, but my brother owns the title for it." She heard him shifting around and she glanced at the large black figure lying on the other side of the fire. "Don't worry, little bird, I'll make sure you have a someplace to build a pretty nest." He chuckled, and Sansa was glad he couldn't see her blush. "Could it be near Winterfell?" "Might be, we'll see." Sansa nodded, and covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. "Good night…Sandor." "Good night, little bird."

A/N: Awww aren't they just precious


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

Sansa woke up with a groan. The hay had felt somewhat comfortable the night before, but by morning it was scratchy and rough, poking through the blanket and into her dress. She sat up, covering her mouth as she yawned, and looked around. Sunlight streamed in through the barn, promising a fair day. Sandor's spot by the fire was empty, but she soon spotted him standing next to Stranger, brushing his coat and muttering to the fearsome horse in low words.

Wobbly, she stood and brushed herself off, then approached him. He glanced at her, and a grin pulled at the burned corner of his mouth. "Good morning, little bird." "Good morning." Sandor put down the brush and came to stand in front of her. Blinking, she wondered sleepily if he meant to kiss her again, but he only reached into her hair and pulled out a long piece of straw, giving a chuckle when she blushed, more from her silent assumptions than the fact that she must look positively bedraggled.

They ate quickly, as Sandor wanted to reach Winterfell before night. Sansa rolled up her other dress, now dry, and pushed into her bag. Sandor loaded their things back onto Stranger's saddle and led them out of the barn. Outside, a tree had been split in two, its bark blackened and scorched. "When did that happen?" Sansa asked, her hand flying to her mouth. "Sometime after you fell asleep," Sandor answered. "I saw the flash and the tree cracked open. You didn't even wake at the sound." Sansa wondered how she could have slept through something like that, when it had happened so close to where they were sleeping.

Sandor set her on the horse's back and climbed up behind her, surrounding her with his strong arms again. Memories of their kisses flooded back into her mind, and she squirmed, hoping he didn't hear how loudly her heart was thudding against her ribcage. He said nothing, and directed the horse back onto a path that looked barely used. Sansa wondered why he didn't cut back to the main road, but she stayed silent. He was taking her home one way or the other, and he probably had his reasons for going this way.

As they rode, Sansa could tracks from horses and carts that had been partially washed away by the storm the night before. Had the Confederates reached Gettysburg? Had the fighting commenced? Sansa shuddered, thinking of how she might have been stuck back there if not for the Hound. If the Confederates won, they would surely break into every house and steal things for their soldiers.

"Who do you think will win?" Sansa asked abruptly. "The battle? Hell if I know," Sandor answered with a shrug. "I'd bet on the Union though. Not sure how well that ragtag army that passed us last night will hold up. Still, they got this far North, could be they have a few surprises left. Either way, it will be a turning point to this war." Sansa bit her lip, and her heart ached for her father and brothers. "I wish it was over," she sighed. "So do a great many people, little bird, on both sides. But as long as there are plenty of men to fight, the blood will flow." She swallowed at his words. "You've…you said you've killed men before?" she asked timidly. He laughed. "Aye, I have. Don't look so pale. Your father and brothers have killed many men too, you know." She frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. She knew they would never take pleasure in killing someone, but Sandor Clegane sounded like _he_ might. "The world's made and built by killers, little bird," he continued, but more softly. "You better get used to looking at them."

It was a very dark view of the world, and so completely opposite of what Sansa had been taught her entire life. Yet even in her own recent experiences, she had been exposed to the horror and sadness that human beings could bring upon one another. Sansa could not help but cling to the hope that everything could be bright and fresh and good again, and there would be no more need for killing, for sons to never come home again, and children to never see their fathers walk through the front door. The war would end soon, and things would be just as they should.

And she would be married to the Hound.

They rode in silence as the sun climbed higher into the sky and the day became warmer. Sansa's back began to hurt from the combination of riding and the rough bed of hay she had slept in. She attempted to distract herself by thinking up ways to break the news of her spontaneous engagement to her mother. _Mother, this is Sandor Clegane. He used to work for the Lannisters as a ruthless mercenary, but he became a blockade-runner for the Union. I'm going to marry him. _There seemed to be no good way to explain what happened. Catelyn Stark would surely have a fit over her daughter marrying such a man, who had done such things, and so forth. No matter what Sansa said, she was sure her announcement was going to be met with explosive results. Sandor had sounded confident that her family would accept it since he had saved her from Gettysburg, but Sansa was not so sure.

The roof of a farmhouse appeared over a hill, and Sandor rode slowly towards it. As they got closer, Sansa saw that the roof was blackened and burned, and the yard looked a mess. A farmer and his wife were milling about, and it was entirely too quite. They passed by and didn't earn so much as a glance from the couple. "What happened?" Sansa whispered, turning so she could look over her shoulder. "War," Sandor grumbled. "The Confederates probably took their livestock and supplies for their army. Probably ransacked them right before we met them at the bridge." Sansa swallowed a lump in her throat and clenched her fists. Everything was so ruined and spoiled, all because of the war. She did not want there to be slaves, but couldn't something be resolved without wrecking the country? If there was, she was sure President Lincoln would figure it out. He was a good man.

Sansa had seen him once. He had given a speech in the next town over, and the Starks had piled into a wagon and driven over to see him. Sansa had to stand to see over the people, and she watched as a tall, thin man with a beard and kind eyes spoke. Ned Stark had shaken his hand later, and Sansa thought she had never seen her father look more proud.

The day wore on, and Sansa was getting more uncomfortable and nervous. The saddle hurt her back, and she was anxious about the reception of the large man sitting behind her. As much as she wanted to see her mother and little brothers, she dreaded the inevitable confrontation that would occur. A thousand arguments ran through her head as she sought for ways to convince her mother to agree to the marriage. Sandor had been kind to her, courted her even, and he protected her. Surely that would count for something. Yet given his background and character, Sansa wasn't sure it would be enough.

"Sandor," she began, "I'm…I'm not sure how we should tell my mother of our…engagement." She felt him shift behind her, and he said nothing for a moment. "I suppose we'll simply tell her and see what happens," he answered with a shrug. Sansa bit her lip. Wasn't he worried at all? She decided to give up and wait until they were in Winterfell before she was concerned about their situation again.

The sun was swinging low in the sky when they finally reached the main road heading for Winterfell. Sansa leaned forward in the saddle eagerly, as if that would help move them along faster. She wished Stranger would gallop, but she knew the poor horse had been carrying them all day. It didn't keep her from fidgeting though. "Easy, little bird, we'll get there," Sandor grunted behind her, and he reached a hand up to smooth back one of her curls. His hand was warm, and Sansa found herself leaning into his touch. He stopped when the town came into view.

Home was so close Sansa could almost taste it, and she did not want to go through town. They would surely be stopped and asked a thousand questions, and Sansa had no time for that. "There's a short-cut," she told Sandor, pointing to a pathway through a small wooded area. "I do not wish to enter town just yet." He said nothing, and she twisted around to look up at him. His face was set hard, mouth drawn in a line as he stared at the town before them. "What is it?" she asked. "Something's not right," he rasped, his eyes narrowing. Sansa forward again, but she could see nothing unusual. It was a little quiet, perhaps, but it was as if everyone was holding their breaths, waiting for news from Gettysburg. Sandor clicked Stranger into a trot, and they headed for the path she had pointed out. He was very quiet, and his chest was stiff against her back.

The woods were quiet too, and soon Sansa could see her family's property through the trees. The hills and fields called to her, and she wanted to jump off Stranger and run, fly, if only it would get her home sooner. But she was a lady, not a child, and so she restrained herself, gripping the front of the saddle until her knuckles turned white.

The trees parted at last, and the blessed house stood before them, the setting sun casting shadows over it. The yard was quiet as well, and Sansa looked around, confused. Where was everyone? It was late, so she supposed their workers had gone home, but there was usually someone about. No matter, she was home! Sansa wanted to sing she was so happy. Any minute now, Septa Mordane would open the front door, and Bran and Rickon would tumble outside to meet them, followed by her mother.

They rode up to the front steps and Sandor dismounted, helping Sansa down after. "Thank you," she said, squeezing his forearms warmly, not noticing his distracted face, then she turned and hurried up the steps, clutching her skirts in one hand. "Mother! Mother, I'm home!" she called, reaching for the door. It swung open easily, and she entered the hall.

The house was much as she had left it, but it was uncommonly still. She hesitated, confused, until a familiar figure appeared on the stairs. "Oh! Miss Sansa!" Septa Mordane moved down the stairs faster than Sansa had ever seen her, and she was enveloped in a large hug. "Oh, thank goodness you're alright! However did you get out of Gettysburg?" "Sandor Clegane helped me," Sansa answered, smiling, then gazed around the Septa eagerly. "Who? Oh…" her septa looked startled, and Sansa turned to see that Sandor had followed her inside. His eyes rested on her with a strange look in them. "Yes. Where's mother?" As happy as she was to see Mordane, she wasn't who Sansa longed to see the most.

Mordane pulled back, stiffening somewhat, and she ran her tongue nervously over lips and her eyes darted her and there, avoiding Sansa. "The whole town has been struck by the fever, Miss Sansa. I've never seen anything like it. Almost everyone's been sick. But they're getting better now…" "Oh, I see," Sansa answered distractedly, barely registering Mordane's words. Where was Catelyn Stark? "Your brothers…the little ones…they got the fever too, but they're young and healing up right fast." Mordane was clutching some towels, and was wringing them now in her hands. Sansa heard that part. "Oh dear, I must see them soon, too. If it's not catching still. But tell me, where's Mother? Is she seeing to someone in town?" It would be just like Catelyn to go tend to the sick. Perhaps she wasn't home yet.

The Septa was trembling. "Lady Catelyn…she got the fever too…" her voice trailed off with a catch and she stared at Sansa almost fearfully.

Sansa pulled away, her heart beating as a swell of anxiety rose within her. She looked this way and that, as if Catelyn would suddenly materialize out of the air. "Mother?" she called hesitantly, moving towards the stairs. No answer. She walked to the open door of the study. "Mother?" A hand closed around her frantically beating heart. She turned and looked back at Mordane. "Mother?' she asked, her voice breaking. Mordane lowered her eyes, then glance towards the closed door of the smaller parlor, across from the staircase.

Sansa walked towards it and placed her sweating palm on the handle, and turned it silently. The door opened, and she stepped into the dimly lit room, closing the door behind her.

Before her was a table with sheets covering it, surrounded by low-burning candles. Behind it was another table with flowers and a cross and a Bible. Under the sheets was a form. Sansa approached it, her breathing stilled as fear gripped at her. Slowly she lifted her hand and took hold of one end of the sheet, pulling it until she saw the figure underneath.

It was Catelyn Stark, and she was dead.

A bucket of ice was poured on top of Sansa, draining her of warmth and feeling, and she collapsed before the table with a scream, and sobs racked her chest and she clutched the sheet in her fists.

* * *

><p>The candles were almost completely snuffed out by the time Sansa finally rose and quitted the parlor, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She was immediately greeted by Mordane, who looked worried and sad. "I'm so sorry, Miss Sansa," she said, taking Sansa's hand. She only nodded, feeling as if she was trapped inside a nightmare. "I've set some soup out for you, if you're hungry." Food. How could she ever eat again? "No, thank you, I…I think I will go for a walk." She extricated herself from the septa's arms and left through the front door, walking in a daze across the yard and towards the fields.<p>

The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon now, but Sansa knew this land by heart, and she did not need the light to see. As she passed the barn at a distance, she saw Sandor standing inside with Stranger, brushing him down. He saw her, too, hesitated, then began to walk towards her. She continued on, knowing he would catch up. Her feet had a mind of their own, and they carried her to the top of a hill where she could look down on some of the fields and a winding stream. She used to sit there often as a little girl, picking flowers and making crowns for herself and bouquets for her mother and father. It did nothing to ease the pain in her chest.

She stood there for a long time, blankly staring before her as the wind softly pulled at her hair and dried the continual stream of tears running down her cheeks, until a shadow fell on the grass beside her. "Little bird," she heard him rumble softly, but he did not reach for her. Maybe he was afraid. She was afraid too, she decided, afraid that if he touched her should break into a thousand pieces and be swept away into the wind. Sansa suddenly yearned to be comforted, no matter what happened to her as a result, and she turned to face him.

He was close, and she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Her eyes rested on his chest, at his arms, then trailed up to his face. He was studying her, concern written on his features as he took in her tear-streaked cheeks. His grey eyes were filled with something she couldn't name, but she found herself transfixed by them. Ever so slightly, his hands twitched towards her, rising upwards hesitantly, and she flew into his arms, burying her face against his travel-worn shirt as fresh sobs escaped her mouth. He said nothing, but his arms encircled her, holding her tight, and he rested his chin on the top of her head. One of his large hands ran a path up and down her back.

Sansa wasn't sure how long they stood there, but finally she spoke. "What am I to do?" The thought that she would have to live so soon without her mother had never occurred to her. She would marry soon, yes, but Catelyn would have always been there. Now she had no one, no one to give her advice or guide her. The woman that Sansa had wanted to model after so dearly had vanished from her life, and Sansa had no idea how to continue on. Did Bran and Rickon know about their mother? How could she tell them?

Sandor brushed his fingers against her hair. "You've still got your brothers, little bird." She felt the rumbling of his voice through his chest. "For what it's worth, you've got me. I'm not going anywhere." He pulled her back a little and tipped her chin up so he could look him in the eye. "Whatever you need, I'll help you. Believe that." Sansa stared up at him, wonderingly, and wished she could take some of his strength and will-power. His words swam in her head, and she latched onto them. _He won't leave me_, she thought. _He'll stay_. The pad of his thumb wiped her face, clearing the tracks that tears had left.

She was lost in a sea of confusion, pain, and heartbreak, but Sandor was a lifeline, and Sansa clung to the security he offered. "Come, little bird, let's get you back to the house," Sandor murmured, placing a soft kiss on top of her forehead before turning, keeping his arm wrapped around her and leading them down the hill.

A/N: This was hard for me to write, in more ways than one. Poor Starks can't catch a break can they? Thank you again for reading, I'm sorry this update took so long!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9

The funeral was held a day later. Most of the town showed up, mourning the loss of Catelyn Stark and offering condolences to her remaining children. Sansa stood with her two little brothers, who had felt just well enough to attend their mother's burial, while Septa Mordane sobbed softly into a wrinkled handkerchief. The preacher droned on about the goodness of Catelyn Stark and how she was now in heaven with no pain.

Sansa had spent all the previous night crying and being with her brothers. Rickon still did not understand where his mother was, and even now he looked lost, holding Bran's hand. Bran had already known of his mother's death, but seeing Sansa had rekindled his sorrow as she tried to comfort him. But how could she when her own heart was broken?

The old Stark family motto was "Winter is Coming", applying it to the way they prepared above and beyond for the cold months. Even with the summer at its height, Sansa felt nothing but winter's wind creeping and curling its cruel fist around Winterfell. Winter had come early for them, and with a vengeance.

Many of her dresses had been left behind in Gettysburg, and Sansa was surprised at how she had grown while she was away. Luckily her black lace still fit, though a bit tight, and she dressed soberly, not caring that her face looked so pale against the harsh color and her bright hair. What mattered was that both of her parents were gone. Some of the Stark workers had left to join the army or run away when the fever came, but there were still enough left to keep the fields in operation. Sansa had given them all the day off to remember her mother, but she also wanted to put off shouldering the responsibility of the farmlands when her mother had only just died and her brothers were still weak as newborn lambs. Thank goodness for Jory, Ned Starks' head man. He had come to her that morning offering his assistance and promising to continuing running the farm the best he could while the family grieved.

The preacher opened up the song book and began to lead them in a hymn, but Sansa found she had no voice for singing. She had no tears left either. Only an empty, aching feeling. That and the warmth she felt from the presence of the large man standing behind her.

Septa Mordane had not known what to do with Sandor Clegane, and she had been shocked and speechless when Sansa had requested a room to be made up for him. "My lady, he is not fit to stay in this house," she had sniffed, while Sandor stood directly in ear-shot. "He's a beastly man." "He brought me home safely and has promised to help us, which is more than other gentlemen have done," Sansa told her, tiredly. She had no will left for arguing, but she would not let Sandor be treated like scum. "Please, Mordane. I know it's what Mother would have wanted. And I do as well." She didn't in fact know what her Mother would have done, but it seemed to work as Septa Mordane gave a sigh, eyed Sandor suspiciously, and went upstairs, calling for one of the maids to help her. "I don't think she likes me much," Sandor had chuckled. "She's just protective," Sansa had answered, and led him to the dining room where some soup had been laid out for her. It was cold now, so she called for a maid to re-heat it and bring some extra for Sandor. They ate together in silence. Her appetite had fled her, but Sandor insisted on her finishing the meal. "You need your strength, Little Bird," he rasped softly, running his fingers over her cheek. He withdrew them quickly when Mordane came back into the room to announce curtly that both their rooms were ready.

He had left her to her brothers that night, understanding fully their need to just be together, but today Sansa longed for his touch and his strength, thankful that she could rely on him. Asking him to take her back to Winterfell had been the best decision she could have made, Sansa decided. She glanced behind her to see he wasn't singing either, but he was standing quietly and even looked somewhat respectful, despite the occasional twitch on the scarred side of his face. His grey eyes met hers and she wanted to drown in them, but this was neither the time nor place. When they had arrived, she had seen many of the townspeople glancing his way in confusion, whispering to each other about why such a man was in the company of Miss Stark and her brothers, but Sansa ignored them all. Their opinions mattered less to her than ever; it seemed so silly to gossip about such things during a funeral anyways. Septa Mordane had, of course, expressed her displeasure when Sansa told her Sandor would be staying with them for some time, muttering about a man such as he was not fit for the company of a lady. But Sansa had put her foot down. She had yet to announce their engagement, but he was to be her husband, and would be treated as such. Sansa dreaded making that announcement, however; her Septa would most likely have a stroke, along with all the other mothers in the town.

The service ended, and everyone came forward to toss flowers on the grave and give a brief prayer. Sansa had been clutching a bouquet of lilies, her mother's favorite, and when she stepped forward she could hear the click of tongues and sympathetic sighs all around. Then she had to wait while they came and took her hand and expressed their grief, saying the same to her brothers: poor, wide-eyed and solemn Bran and little Rickon, who looked like he might cry any second. Sansa wished they would all go away and leave them be, but it was ungrateful and unkind to think so. She managed to summon a sad smile while she accepted their condolences, ignoring the strange looks they gave Sandor, who had moved a little closer behind her.

Back at Winterfell, Bran and Rickon were out back to bed to rest, and Sansa went to her father's study. The smell of books and pipe tobacco reminded her of Ned, so quiet and often grave but with a warm twinkle in his grey eyes. Being the room helped her feel closer to him, somehow. She sank down onto the window seat and watched the soft rain patter against the glass. After a while the door opened and closed gently, and Sandor came to stand beside her. He said nothing but placed a hand on her shoulder, and Sansa leaned her cheek against it.

They stayed like that for a long time until he moved and sat next to her. "What can I do?" he rasped, and reached for a lock of her hair. She studied him, taking in all of his features: the twisted scars, the grey storm of his eyes, his dark, tousled hair, the strong jawline. The way his shirt strained against his chest and arms as he moved. A flutter of shyness and nervousness appeared in her belly. He still intimidated her in many ways, and Sansa was still in awe by how much he wanted her. The desire was there, even now, in his eyes as he swept them over her face, but she was used to it now. Almost. "I don't know," she answered, barely above a whisper. "I'm not even sure what I should do." Sandor nodded, slowly, and took her hand. It was small and white compared to his large tanned one, and he rubbed his thumb over her skin absently. He glanced around the room, observing the bookshelves and the desk. "Your father's?" he asked. "Yes," she said, and managed a small smile. "I used to wander in here to visit him when I was a little girl, and he would sneak me peppermints that he kept hidden in the bottom drawer." She giggled at the memory, so long ago, when she was young and everything was perfect. Then she grew sad again. "I wish I knew where he was…if he was alright. Mother said they were trying to get him ransom him from the Confederates, but I'm not sure anything can be done." And Jon…and Arya. Her baby sister. Where could she be?

* * *

><p>The Battle of Gettysburg had been won by the Union army, who immediately marched forward against the South with renewed strength, driving them out of the North. The roads opened again, and the mail and news ran freely between towns, and everyone waited breathlessly for the war to end. Surely it had to be soon.<p>

Sansa was busy, taking up the responsibility of running the household. The months she had spent helping Catelyn paid off, but she was beyond grateful to Jory and the others for picking up and running what she did not understand. She tried to spend as much time as possible with her brothers as well. Rickon woke up with nightmares, crying for his mother, and his sobs would abate only when Sansa would come to him. Bran was still weak from the fever and grew tired often, so she insisted he sit outside and absorb the fresh air and sunlight.

Sandor found odd jobs to do around the property. He wasn't afraid of hard work, in fact he seemed to relish it, and the workings of a farm were not too unfamiliar to him, since he had done some ranch work in the West. While Winterfell had escaped being raided by the Confederate army, some of the fields had been dug up and crops were stolen, and fences had been broken down. Either from troops or looters, they didn't know, but Sandor took charge of the re-building. He had frightened the other field-hands almost to death when he showed up, but they soon grew to appreciate his help. Even Jory, who had been just as hesitant as Septa Mordane about letting Sandor remain at Winterfell, began to form a tentative partnership with the man, though he was still wary due to the Hound's reputation.

Sansa often went for walks around her home, and one day she wandered out to where the fences were being repaired. She spotted Sandor working a ways off from everyone else and approached him, carrying a jug of lemonade. He was shirtless, clad only in dirty trousers with faded suspenders hanging uselessly by the belt-loops, and brown boots. Sansa caught herself ogling him as she drew closer. The muscles in his chest and arms rippled as he swung an axe down on a log, and the dark trail of hair on his abdomen that spread up over chest looked slick against the fine sheen of sweat rolling off him in beads. She shivered, then mentally reprimanded herself for gawking at him. She was a lady, and ladies did not openly stare at men's naked upper bodies.

He saw her coming and stopped, leaning the axe against another part of the fence and wiped at the sweat on his forehead, slinging his hair back. "Little Bird," he murmured with a smirk as she drew near. He must have seen her blushing. Sansa feigned polite indifference and held the jug out to him. "I brought you some lemonade, if you like." He chuckled and took it from her, throwing his head back to take large gulps of the cold liquid. Sansa watched, entranced, as his adam's apple bobbed. When he finished, he handed the jug back to her and she was unsurprised that he had drunk the whole thing. She was surprised when he suddenly snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. "Sandor!" she yelped. "Little Bird," he growled, and buried his face against her neck and hair, giving her soft kisses. Sansa felt the sweat and heat from his body burning into her through the thin dress she was wearing, but when she struggled he only groaned and pulled her closer. "They'll see!" she whimpered, trying not to notice how nice it felt to be surrounded by him. "They won't," he snickered, then his mouth was on hers and she forgot everything until he finally pulled away, both of them breathless.

Sandor kept his arm around her while he dragged a hand through her red tresses. "What would your Septa say?" he asked with a wicked grin. "She would probably faint, wake up to chastise us both, then faint straight away again," Sansa giggled. She knew it wasn't proper to be so…so intimate with him, even though he was to be her husband, but it felt so nice to be near him. The exciting feeling she had received from being in his company in Gettysburg had developed into a sort of adrenaline rush. He made her want to fly and run into his arms and run away from him all the same time. Was that love? She didn't know, but she was sure it must be something close, since it was so wonderful and frightening.

"Hmmm…" He contemplated her mouth again but Sansa placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed away. "We mustn't, someone could come along any moment. Besides, you smell." He rolled his eyes but released her, and she picked up the jug she didn't remember dropping. When she straightened, she saw that his eyes were fixed on the front of her chest, a hungry expression on his face, and when she looked down she gasped. Her dress had been soaked through from his sweat, the damp cloth sticking to her skin. Sansa stared blankly at it, wondering what excuse she could give for the state of the cloth. "Oh dear." Sandor stared at her unabashedly, and she shivered as another wicked smirk spread across his features. "You could take it off to dry in the sun." Sansa gave him an exasperated look. "Don't be crude, or I won't come visit you anymore." His harsh laughter followed her as she trekked back across the fields.

Sandor would also ride into town and sometimes farther out to hear the news of the battles and politics. In the evenings he would return with some supplies and sometimes a treat for Bran and Rickon. The boys were still shy and a little afraid of him, but Bran, with his solemn young face, would look him in the eye and thank him. Rickon would cower behind Sansa's skirts and accept the treat bashfully, staring at him with big eyes.

It was one such day that Sandor came home earlier than usual, riding Stranger fast with a cloud of dust billowing behind him. Sansa had been giving Bran a haircut on the front steps, tossing the locks into the yard so the birds could use them for nests. She put down the scissors and hurried to him as he dismounted. "Sandor, what is it?" she exclaimed. "I was in town when the post came, so I picked up the mail on my way back." He pulled a wrinkled, dirty letter out of his coat and handed it to Sansa. "I figured you'd want to see this as soon as possible." Sansa took the letter from him and smoothed it over, squinting at the handwriting.

Goosebumps raised on her arms. She turned the letter over and over until she spotted two tiny initials in the corner. "It's from Arya!"

Sansa tore the letter open as Bran ran to join her, shouting "Let me see!" She shook out the parchment and began to read out loud.

_Dear Mother, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon, _

_I had a chance to write a line, finally. Please don't worry about me, I am fine, and doing much for the war effort. I've made a great many friends. I can't tell you where I am, it's too dangerous, that is why I only just was able to write this. I hope you all are well, and I love you._

There was no name, and the date was faded at the bottom, but Sansa could make out that it had been written a few weeks ago. She swallowed a lump in her throat, running her fingers over Arya's messy handwriting. Her sister was alive. And she didn't know about their mother.

Sansa wanted to be angry with her sister for leaving when their mother would have needed her help, but she had no room left to hold bitterness against one of the last members of her family. She was too happy that Arya was alive, and seemed to be well. Which meant she might come home.

She smoothed the letter again then handed it to Bran who scanned it over eagerly as if there might be something Sansa had missed. "I'll take it to Rickon," he said and scampered off. Sandor patted Stranger down and started leading him to the barn, Sansa trailing a long beside him. "I saw the initials. A.S. I figured they might be your sister's," he rasped. Sansa nodded, wrapping her arms around herself even though it was warm out. "It was something we did when we were little," she explained. "We used to write pretend letters to each other, but they were secret, so we used our initials as code. I guess it seems pretty silly." Sandor shook his head. "It's clever. Notice how she didn't sign her name at the bottom? If anyone opened the letter they would know it was from one the Starks, but they wouldn't know which one or where it came from. Only someone with an experienced eye would find the initials. I was curious because it was so battered and that's how I spotted it." "I hope she's really alright," Sansa said, leaning against the stall as Sandor unsaddled Stranger. "What do you think she could be doing?" "Hard to say," Sandor grunted, wiping his hands on a towel. "But if it's too dangerous to tell even her family, I'd say she's in the South."

* * *

><p>Sansa was sitting at her dressing table, running her brush through her long red hair which shone in the candle-light. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, Sansa recalled all the compliments she had received earlier that day from her visit to town. Almost every person she met had remarked how much she looked like Catelyn Stark, how she had become such a lady, and how her mother would be so proud of her.<p>

The worst questions were always about when she would marry? Did she have any young beaus? There weren't many social events in town because of the war and the recovery from the fever, but Sansa had received an invitation to a luncheon at the Bolton's estate, and after Mordane had fussed and pleaded with her to attend, Sansa conceded and braced herself for an onslaught of nosy neighbors.

She was almost immediately surrounded by her mother's friends, peppering her with questions while sipping their tea and waving their fans. Many of them hinted that their sons were in town, some even in attendance at this very luncheon, and tittered about the possibility of them calling on Sansa. She would have been flattered once, giggled, and blushed, but now all she did was smile politely and bite back her annoyance at their suggestions. Of course, they couldn't know that she was promised to Sandor, but the idea of driving out with another young man and listening while he paid her empty compliments and talked incessantly about the war was enough to make her fidget uncomfortably in her seat. She was sure they were nice young men, and the ladies meant well, but none of their sons could ever hope to inspire the overwhelming fire and excitement she experienced when in Sandor's presence.

Then, of course, after tea she was approached by some of those sons, including Ramsay Bolton, who made Sansa's skin crawl, and they fluttered around her like indecisive butterflies, eager to gain a smile or even the teeniest flirt from her. Sansa managed to escape them when she excused herself to the powder room, where she began to seriously contemplate an escape. Luckily, gray clouds moved in, and Sansa called for her buggy to bring her home before the rain fell.

Sansa sighed and set her brush aside to begin plaiting her hair for bed. She hadn't seen Sandor all day, and when she asked Mordane she only clicked her tongue and replied that she had no inclination to know that man's whereabouts. Sansa had hoped to speak to him before she turned in, and she felt rather disappointed. It would have been nice to steal a kiss with him or even touch his hand after all the nonsense she had had to put up with that afternoon.

She had just tied a ribbon on her braid when there was a knock at her door. "Who is it?" she called. "It's me, Little Bird." She turned toward the door with a gasp, then stood, quickly wrapping a robe around her nightgown before gently opening the door and peeking out. Sandor stood in the shadowed hallway, still dressed, his large frame towering over her. He stepped forward, pushing the door open more with his hand, and Sansa caught a whiff of whiskey on him. "Have you been drinking?" she asked. "Only a little," he grumbled, shifting in place. "I'm not drunk, if that's what you're asking." Sansa thought differently, but she only sighed, then glanced around. "What are you doing? If Septa saw you standing here talking to me while I'm in my nightgown…" "Bugger your Septa," he growled. He reached a hand stroked her braid thoughtfully. Sansa waited patiently to see what he wanted.

"So, how was it?" he asked. She blinked. "How was what?" "That damn luncheon you went to," Sandor rasped, not disguising the malice in his voice. "It…was alright, I suppose," Sansa answered carefully, unsure of what answer he was looking for. Sandor's eyes darted to hers, the swirling emotions in them catching her off-guard. "You're lying," he stated flatly. A smirk spread over his features and he leaned against the doorframe. "Tell me the truth, girl. You hated every moment of it. All those hens clucking around you, trying to pry into your personal affairs. Did they unleash all their handsome young sons, fresh home from the battle-field, to court you?"

Sansa stared at him, chewing her lip. Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. "How did you know?" He gave her a self-satisfied grin. "I was in town when the rain hit, so I stayed holed up in Mill's General Store. Later a group of boys trooped in, talking about the Bolton's, and they spoke about you." Sansa sighed, fiddling with a loose string on her robe. "I didn't _hate_ it, but I didn't enjoy myself either. It was ever so dull." He chuckled. "What, you're not impressed with those gallant boys in uniform?" Sansa shot him a withering look. "You know I am not, Sandor."

His eyes darkened at her words, and leaned in a little closer. She became nervous, and glanced at him shyly. "After all, I am engaged to another, am I not?" The burned corner of his mouth twitched, and his rough, warm fingers tipped her chin up. "Not _properly_," he teased, and bent to kiss her. It was much shorter than their other ones and he pulled back, letting her go and backing away into the hall. "Bugger me," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I can't stand it, Little Bird, hearing them trying to woo you. It makes me want to crack their skulls open." Sansa blinked at him, and she reached a hand out cautiously, like she was trying to calm a wild animal. "Please…" He grabbed her hand and jerked her towards him, wrapping his other arm around her waist and burying his face in her neck. "You're mine," he growled. Sansa shivered in his embrace; she feared him when he was this way, yet it also made her tremble with something she did not understand. "Yes," she whispered gently, patting his back soothingly as if he was a child. "I'm yours, Sandor. Please, please don't be angry."

He gave a long shuddering sigh, and released her, looking a bit ashamed of himself. "Little Bird," he said, and then he turned and walked down the hall, disappearing into the darkness. Sansa went back to her bedroom, blew the candles out, and climbed into bed, where she would toss and turn until the sky turned grey, then pink as tiny rays of sunlight peaked over the hills.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I was going to end it a different way originally, but I decided to keep that until the next chapter. Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I just could not wait to post this, so here you go, happy Friday!

Chapter 10

It was a morning in early September, a couple of weeks after the luncheon, that Sansa received her first courting call since she had been home. The young man rode up on a fine grey horse, and Septa Mordane welcomed him in with more eagerness than was necessary. Sansa had been upstairs writing a letter when Mordane came knocking on the door. "It's the young Mr. Booth, Miss Sansa, come to see you!" Sansa whirled around in her desk chair, almost knocking over the bottle of ink, and staring at Mordane with a mixture of horror and surprise. "Oh dear…tell him I'm busy, please, Septa." "But Miss Sansa! That would be rude! He's such a fine young man, you must come and see him!" "I've no wish to be courted," Sansa said uncomfortably. It was Mordane's turn to stare, her mouth ajar and eyes blinking. She looked very much like a catfish. "I've never heard such a thing! Miss Sansa, do be sensible! Your mother would be ashamed, turning away a neighbor so!" Sansa relented at last, throwing her hands up, and descended the stairs with the air of a martyr. She received Mr. Booth in the parlor, and he was, indeed, a nice young man, but all Sansa could think of was what might happen if Sandor came back to the house and discovered she had a gentleman caller. That thought alone was enough to make her sweat and fidget, not that she feared for herself in any way, but she did not wish any harm upon Mr. Booth.

Charles Booth was from a genteel, old-blood family, and they knew many of the same people and their conversation was attuned to similar tastes. Sansa tried very hard to be polite and kind, but reserved enough to not lead him to believe she was encouraging him. She remained in absolute agony until he finally took his leave, kissing her hand, and rode away. Sansa hoped that would be the end of it, but unfortunately her acceptance of Mr. Booth seemed to have sparked a flame, for after that more young men came to call. Sansa was in such a state that she feared she might lose her mind, or at least pull her hair out, and she spent most of the visits trying to subtly get rid of them. A few were rude enough to inquire after the state of the farm, with questions that showed they wanted to know more than what was polite, and Sansa would fabricate some excuse to send them right back to wherever it was they came from. Now that she was quite possibly the heir to Winterfell, she was being sought after like a fox on hunting day.

Sandor always happened to be out when these callers came, but Sansa felt so dreadful that she decided to tell him what was happening. She wandered into the stables one evening as he was shoeing Stranger. "Sandor," she began hesitantly. He looked up at her, his hair mussed and his white shirt partly unbuttoned. "What is it, little bird?" he rasped, fiddling with a shoe. Sansa chewed the corner of her lip. "I keep…having…young men coming to call on me. Some of them have been trying to court me." She held her breath and waited. His cool grey eyes searched her face while a dark look formed on his own. "Is that so?" Sansa's heart sank. "I…I don't want to hurt your feelings," she said. "I don't receive them because I want to. Septa makes me feel so guilty if I don't." She sighed and sank down onto some hay, picking up a piece to twirl in her fingers.

Sandor's mouth twitched in amusement. "Have you grown tired of pretty words and gallantry? None of their handsome faces have turned your head?" Sansa met his eyes, and she saw bitterness, insecurity, but also hopefulness. She responded with a tender smile. "I think prefer honest words, however rough and crude they may be." A glint returned to his eyes and his mouth twitched. "And I've grown partial another kind of face." She stood and left him with Stranger.

The next day Ramsay Bolton called. Sansa saw him coming from upstairs, and just as she was contemplating climbing out her bedroom window and down the apple tree outside like Arya used to do, Septa appeared and prevented her escape. Sansa gave a long-suffering sigh and came down to the parlor. Ramsay was a strange fellow, with pale skin, dark hair, and eyes that weren't quite blue but not quite grey, and he always looked like he had stolen something from the offering plate at church. Being near him made Sansa shiver, and not in the way Sandor made her shiver. She had heard stories about him; nasty, vicious stories, and she wondered why he was even invited anywhere at all. But she would honor her parents, and received him coolly but politely.

He began their visit by asking, "Tell me, Miss Stark, how it is that the Lannister's dog has ended up at Winterfell? He must have done something very heroic to earn the favor of a lady such as you." Sansa clenched her hands in her lap and tried to remain calm. "Sandor Clegane is no dog, and he has no affiliation with the Lannisters any longer. He has helped us a great deal and I am very grateful to him." This answer, she hoped, would satisfy any other questions he might have, but this was not the case. "I wonder," he said, stroking his chin. "How grateful to him you really are." Sansa blinked in confusion. What did he mean? She knew there were rumors about Sandor's strange arrival to Winterfell with her. Had Ramsay guessed the understanding they had between them? "I don't know what you mean," she sniffed. "But if you are intending to imply something, speak and do not beat about the bush."

Instead of looking affronted, he grinned. "Not at all, Miss Stark. I was merely wondering how a man of his reputation and particular talents has somehow caused you to be indebted to him." This conversation was going down a path Sansa did not like, and she concluded that the visit needed to end. She stood and smoothed her skirts. "Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Bolton, but I think you should go." He stood as well, but the grin disappeared and was replaced by a nasty scowl. "Surely you must know it is an unusual circumstance, Miss Stark," he said, taking a step forward. "Surely you must know that it is none of your business," Sansa replied, barely reigning in the anger she felt. "The man is a fiend, Miss Stark. He's left a trail of bodies just as long as his brother's, and yet you shelter him under your roof! My, my, what must that say about you, to have such a dog sniffing around your skirts? Tell me, do you give him handouts?"

Before she knew it Sansa had reached out and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. "How dare you speak such things to me in my own house!" she cried as he reeled back in surprise. The scowl on his face turned even more twisted, eating up his surprise at her reaction. He stepped forward again, fists clenched, and Sansa backed away, her momentum quickly ebbing and she started to become fearful. "You little…" A large hand shot out and grabbed Ramsay by the collar, jerking him forward so that he was now face to face with the Hound himself. Sansa started at his sudden entrance.

Sandor's eyes had turned black, burning with rage, and his face was etched with a murderous glare. Teeth bared, he hissed, "What were you about to call my lady?" Ramsay's face turned sickly white as he gawked at the giant man towering menacingly over him. He licked his lips nervously, shaking. "N-nothing…" With some form of foolish bravado, he raised his chin defiantly. "Nothing that wouldn't be true, anyhow. Everyone knows how she's been giving the Lannister dog treats." Sansa's hand flew to her mouth as Sandor punched Ramsay in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. With a roar, he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him, one-handed, to the front door. Sansa hurried after him to see Sandor fling open the door and toss Ramsay down the steps where he landed ungracefully. Sandor's face was red as he barked out, "If I see you anywhere near Miss Stark again, I crush your windpipe and throw you in the river!" Ramsay, holding his bleeding chin, scuttled to where his horse was and unceremoniously climbed on, riding away in a cloud of dust.

Sandor turned and rushed to her. "Are you alright, little bird?" he asked. Sansa nodded, then winced as she finally registered the sting in her palm from slapping Ramsay. Sandor took her hand and looked at it, the anger on his face slowly fading but there was still turmoil in his eyes. "I shouldn't have slapped him," Sansa said, embarrassed by her loss of composure. "It provoked him." "I'm glad you did, little bird," Sandor told her huskily, and he started pressing each of her fingers to his lips. "I'm glad I got to see it too." He winked at her and she blushed, distracted by his caresses. Sandor smirked and pulled her against him, growling, "I'll throw them all out like that, if you want." She was about to answer when there was a loud gasp from the stairs, followed by something clattering to the ground and breaking.

The couple whirled to see Septa Mordane standing in the middle of the steps, mouth agape with shock. At her feet lay the breakfast tray from Sansa's room. "What's the meaning of this?" she exclaimed. "Miss Sansa, what on earth are you doing?" Sansa bit her lip and started to wriggle out of Sandor's embrace, but he held her tight, and gave Mordane a challenging look. "Sandor…" she whispered urgently. The scarred man gave her a wicked grin. "I think it's time we told her, little bird." "Tell me what? What on earth is going on? Miss Sansa…" "We're engaged!" Sansa blurted.

The house became incredibly still. Mordane turned different hues of red and purple and raised a fluttering hand to her breast. "Oh my…oh dear…" she sank down to sit on the steps. Sansa was shocked by her own outburst, but she couldn't help it. The weight of the secret had become too much. Sandor looked like he was going to start laughing as his gaze focused back and forth between Sansa and Mordane. "Sandor," Sansa began, "Would you please fetch the smelling salts?" The man chuckled and released her to walk down the hallway to the cabinet. Sansa approached Mordane, who was moaning in agony, her chest heaving. "Miss Sansa, it's not true," she gasped out. "What do you mean by getting engaged to…to...him!" Sansa sighed and joined her, fanning her with her hand.

Sandor returned with the salts, still holding back his merriment as he passed them forward. Mordane looked at him as if he was a poisonous viper. "You!" she cried out. "I knew you were up to no good, the moment I saw you. Scoundrel, they all said. And now you've gone and made Miss Sansa agree to marry you, goodness knows why! Brute!" Instead of becoming offended, Sandor barked out a harsh laugh, unable to control his mirth any longer. Sansa frowned at him. "Sandor, be civil, please. Mordane is about to faint." His eyes twinkling mischievously, Sandor sat on the steps too. "Now, now, Septa, there's no reason to be so flustered. I thought you were starting to like me?" Mordane regarded him with confusion and disgust. "What nonsense! I've never even considered it!" He chuckled again, and Sansa placed a hand on her forehead. "Septa, Sandor and I have had an understanding for quite some time. We only kept it secret because…because of Mother's…" she stopped, still unable to say the word "death".

Mordane groaned again, holding the salts like a lifeline. "Oh, your poor mother! I have failed her! What would she say now if she knew you were engaged to such a wretched man?" "He's not wretched," Sansa persisted gently. "Not much, anyway," Sandor added. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Both of you! Oh, my nerves, my poor nerves! This is a catastrophe!" A small figure appeared at the top of the stairs. It was Rickon, rubbing his eyes and standing only in his rumpled shirt, as he had been taking his after-dinner nap. "Why is everyone yelling?" he asked sleepily. "Your sister has ruined the family!" Mordane cried out, eager for an ally even if it was only a little boy. "She's engaged herself to this…this…horrid man!" She pointed a shaking finger at Sandor. "Septa!" Sansa admonished. Rickon stared at them all very seriously. "Does that mean you're marrying him, Sansa?" he asked with his baby voice. Sansa nodded, "Yes, dear." The boy blinked for a moment, then he clapped his hands and shouted, "Hooray!"

Sandor slapped his knee and roared with laughter as Mordane finally fainted away.

* * *

><p>The word of Sansa and Sandor's "understanding" spread like wildfire, thanks to some of the more gossipy servants who had over-heard the exchange. Mordane was in hysterics, hardly able to look at Sansa without crying and moaning about how she had failed the Stark family. Sansa tried to explain her desire to marry Sandor. "He's not a gentleman," she conceded. "But he's treated me very well, and the boys like him. He's truthful, honest, hard-working, and he wants me truly, not for Winterfell." Mordane launched into a speech of how it was supposed to be Sansa's duty to marry well, and what about all those nice young men? "Boys, all of them, compared to Sandor," Sansa declared, proud of Sandor's manliness and strength. Mordane only dissolved into tears over this.<p>

The town was in an uproar over it, and the rumors grew even more wild and scandalous. Sansa did not care, not much anyway. It hurt her to think that she had somehow besmirched the family name, but they didn't know Sandor like she did. Even though she had given him her word out of blackmail, Sansa was glad she had, for she did, truly, want to marry him. It had been her choice, rather than what was expected of her.

Sandor had yet to propose to her properly, however, like they had agreed, and Sansa balked from bringing it up to him. She had always dreamed that the moment would be romantic and wonderful, complete with a grand declaration of love. She was fairly certain Sandor would do none of those things, he wasn't the type, yet she couldn't help but feel a little wistful. She didn't even have a ring. Perhaps that was what he was waiting for? If so, then she would be patient, and wait and see what he intended to do.

Wounded soldiers began to travel back up to the North, and occasionally some would stop by Winterfell, begging for water or food. Sansa eagerly supplied them all, offering the spare rooms and supplying baths, while cook and the other kitchen maids whipped up soup and bread and stew. Sansa tore up old sheets so that they would have extra bandages. All the soldiers called her an angel and practically kissed the ground she walked on for her kindness. As each man came, she would ask if they had known her father or brothers. Some had, some had only heard of them, and one man said he had fought alongside Jon before he disappeared. "I reckon he was taken captive, Miss," he spoke with a heavy New York accent. "But take heart, the war can't last much longer. General Sherman's leading an army to burn through the South." She saw Sandor sometimes speaking to the soldiers quietly, a serious look on his face, before they left to continue their journey home. Sansa concluded he was simply asking particulars about the war, but whenever she asked he only grunted and changed the subject.

One afternoon four soldiers showed up, and Sansa and the maid, Eliza, were hurrying back and forth, fetching cloths and food. Rickon and Bran hovered nearby, asking the men for stories. Mordane always hoped that one of the soldiers would catch Sansa's eye, so she was sure to compliment Miss Stark on her beauty and embroidery and how she would make a fine wife someday, until Sansa caught her and shut her up with a glare. They had just handed out a second helping of beef stew to the soldiers, who were seated around the porch, when Mordane spotted a figure off in the distance, slowly ambling down the path. "There's another one, Miss Sansa." Sansa glanced over absently and began to say that she would run fetch more food when she stopped, frozen.

The figure was clearly a soldier, draped in Union blue that was dusty and travel-worn. There was a limp to his gait and he leaned on a crude wooden stick, and though he was too far to make out details, there was something familiar about him… Recognition hit Sansa in a tidal wave, and she gave a cry and sprang down the steps, running towards the figure as fast as her skirts would let her, ignoring Mordane's calls.

The man started to hurry when he saw her coming. Tears rushed down Sansa's cheeks, blurring her vision as she finally closed the distance between them and flung her arms around him. "Father!" she cried. Ned dropped the stick and wrapped his arms around her, finding renewed strength even as he was weak with exhaustion. "Sansa! Sansa, my beautiful girl." They were both crying now, the emotions almost too much bear, the joy at being reunited causing their hearts to overflow. Time stood still until Bran and Rickon joined them, sobbing out "Father!" and Ned released his hold on Sansa only to sweep up his two boys. The little family stood together for a long time, holding onto each other, when at last Ned was too weak to stand much longer, and his children helped him into the house.

A bed was quickly made up on the couch in the study, and Mordane brought down a basin of clean water and soap and fresh clothes, dabbing at her eyes and singing a hymn at the top of her lungs. Ned was given a bowl of stew and some bread, and Sansa sat by him, helping him eat. Her father was thinner than she had last seen him, and his face was more lined and tired. A long, tangled beard covered his face, and his hairy was dirty, but he was still Ned Stark. His shoulders stooped with exhaustion and when Sansa asked about his leg, he said that he had been shot there and the wound had never properly healed. He would probably have a limp for the rest of his life.

After he had eaten and cleaned up and was settled against the pillows, Sansa took his hand. "Father, what happened? Did you escape from the Confederates?" He shook his head. "No. I was captured after a battle, the same one your brother Robb…" he swallowed then, the pain of losing his son still raw. "I was taken and kept in the prison tents. They wanted to hold me hostage as a threat to the North, hoping that if they held a man of importance they could win some ground in the negotiations with General Grant. The negotiations fell through, of course, and I was sent to rot in a prison in Kentucky." He took a deep breath and searched his daughter's face. "That's where I learned that Jon had apparently been taken as well, but had escaped. Then Tywin Lannister arrived to inform of…of Catelyn…" he covered his eyes with his hand, and Sansa's lips trembled, her own grief re-opened. After a moment he cleared his throat and continued. "They had been trying to get information out of me for months, but I refused to betray the Union. Tywin thought that with my emotional state over losing Catelyn and the boys, I would be easy to persuade. They offered me freedom in exchange for information, but I couldn't do it."

Sansa sighed sadly, kissing his hand. "Poor Father," she murmured. The thought of him suffering was unbearable to think about. Ned patted her knee. "All is well, Sansa. I'm alive and well." "But, Father," Bran said from his place on the floor, "how did you get away?" "I was released," Ned replied, his brow furrowing. "They came to my cell a few weeks ago and said that they had received my weight in gold in exchange for my freedom. I think they had been planning to shoot me, but the Confederates needed money, and gold was worth more than my head. They turned me loose, and I had to walk home as there was no horse to be spared." He grew thoughtful, raising a hand to his chin. "How strange," Sansa said softly. "I wonder who supplied the gold? Was it the Union, do you think? Mother said in a letter that they had refused negotiations with her." Ned shook his head. "No, it was not the Union. But they told me who the man was, and I can't help but feel confused and uncertain as to why he would go to such great lengths to free me. It doesn't make sense."

It was Sansa's turn to furrow her brow as she and Bran exchanged glances. "Why, who was it Father?" Ned licked his chapped lips and responded, "Sandor Clegane, the Lannister's Hound." Sansa dropped his hand in shock, staring at him wide-eyed. A thousand questions stormed her mind as her heart beat erratically against her ribs. Bran and Rickon looked just as surprised, and Bran started to say, "Why, Father, he- "Perhaps we should let Father rest now," Sansa interrupted quickly, giving her brothers a look. "He's had a long journey."

They took turns hugging him and left the study. Sansa gave him a kiss on the cheek and he touched her hair. "You look so much like Cat," he said softly. "She would be proud of you." Sansa smiled, choking back her tears, and patted his shoulder. Closing the study door, she instructed Mordane and the maids to keep quiet so Ned could sleep, then walked out onto the porch in a daze, ignoring their questions.

Her father's admission of Sandor's involvement in his release had floored her. Could it really be true? How had he gone about such a thing? Where had he got the gold? Sansa knew he had money, but it had never occurred to her that he had that much. And he had used it and how many other resources to track down her father and set him free…

She had to see him. Sansa set out across the fields, scanning the land frantically for the tall scarred man who had taken root in her life. She spotted him finally near the orchard, under some lemon trees. The sight of him nearly took her breath away as a powerful surge of affection bubbled within her. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she approached him, trembling and unsure of what to do or what to say.

Sandor saw her and he stood, his expression soft as he began to close the space between them "Little bird," he said, and Sansa flew into his arms. "Oh, Sandor," she wailed, clutching at his shirt. "It was you, wasn't it? My father…" Sandor stayed silent and let her sob, stroking her hair gently while his other arm wrapped around her waist." "How did you know?" he asked quietly. "Father said so…the soldiers told him at the prison," Sansa managed to say, sniffling. She pulled back then, gazing up into his face. "How did you manage it?" He gave her a small smile, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. "A dog like me has connections. I know things, hear things. It's why they call me the Hound, little bird. I'm a tracker. I find people. It wasn't easy, I admit, but once I discovered where he was being held it was just a matter of communicating with the right people, twisting the right arms."

Sansa absorbed all this quietly, gazing at him in wonder. "Why?" she asked. He snorted. "Why do you think? For you, little bird. All of this is for you. Always has been." Sansa could barely contain herself, she was so overcome by the powerful emotions that had been assaulting her since she ran to her father on the road. "Sandor," she whispered, feeling fresh tears leak out onto her cheeks. He cradled her face with his large, warm hands, and kissed her. It was gentle and slow, not like their other more hurried, desperate ones. She melted against him and the rest of the world vanished as they kissed, and at that moment Sansa knew she had given her heart to him.

A/N: I hope someone else besides me cried while reading this. Ughh. I'll go into more detail of Ned's paid freedom and what's going to happen now.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Hi everyone! I really loved writing this chapter. Get ready for a Sandor/Ned showdown, and also a nice little surprise I included at the end. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 11

Sansa and Sandor stayed out by the orchard together for a long while, settled under a tree. She leaned up against him with his arms wrapped around her, and listened as he told her how he had discovered the location of her father. "At first all I could find out were rumors," Sandor rasped against her ear, the sound of his voice making her shiver. "But I have some former associates who are, like me, not swayed to one side or the other, and I sent word to them. A few of them owe me for past situations, and I told them it was time to pay up." He snickered at some unknown humor.

"Is that why you've gone to town so much?" Sansa asked as she lightly traced a scar on his hand. "Aye. I had to contact them several times. It took longer that way, but I couldn't leave you to track him down myself, not with all those boys prowling around you." He turned his palm over and Sansa rested her hand on top of it, wondering at the difference in size. "Finally we located him in that Confederate camp and I managed to gain correspondence with the commanding officer. They needed gold more than they needed Ned Stark, so they accepted my offer." Sandor sighed. "I would have tried harder to remain anonymous if I had known that they were going to tell your father who secured his release."

Sansa turned to him, confused. "But why?" "When your father finds out that you have an understanding with me, he's going to assume I supplied the gold for his release to earn favor, to curry a debt. His freedom for your hand." She thought for a moment. "But Sandor, surely you can't deny wanting my father to think well of you?" "I doubt he will, even after this. But his release was merely for you, little bird." Sansa smiled softly at him. "I know my father, he is an honorable man. I do not think he will object to our engagement…at least, not after everything is discussed." Sandor grunted and buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. "We shall see."

He tipped her chin back so she would look him the eyes. "That's also why I haven't proposed to you like we agreed in Gettysburg, little bird. I…though it might be more sound if I spoke to your father first." Sansa blinked at him in surprise and smiled, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. "How _proper_ of you," she teased. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "I thought I might do something right for once, considering how beautifully _tainted_ your reputation has become since our little announcement a few weeks ago." Her hand was still on his cheek, and he turned towards it, nipping gently at her wrist then started down the rest of her arm. Sansa squirmed as he pulled her closer.

"Sandor, perhaps we should go back…" she stated weakly as his mouth made contact with her neck. She felt a deep rumbling in his chest as he moved up to her temple and ear, giving the soft skin a flick with his tongue that sent a shock through her. But he stopped after that, and with a sigh, he reluctantly released her and stood, helping her up.

They walked back to the house as the late afternoon sun nestled beyond the hills. Sansa rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, the feel of him through the linen shirt he wore sending a thrill through her, and the memory of him picking Ramsay up by the scruff of his neck and tossing him out made her giggle softly and blush. He was so strong, stronger than any other man she had ever known. She would always be safe with him. Her father would understand.

On the front porch stood Septa Mordane, her face set with a superior expression as she watched them approach. "Miss Sansa, your father wishes to see you." Something about the way she looked at Sandor filled Sansa's heart with dread. "He's awake? Already?" Mordane nodded, her eyes narrowing at the site of her hand linked in Sandor's arm. Sansa licked her lips nervously, and climbed the steps into the house, tugging Sandor along with her. "Little bird," he rasped, "I'll wait elsewhere…" Sansa shook her head. "No, please, Sandor. I will speak to Father first, but then I'm sure he will wish to see you. Please stay." He relented, and stood in the hallway with arms folded, while Mordane glared at him, taking a seat nearby with some sewing.

Sansa knocked on the study door. "Come in," her father answered. Slipping inside, Sansa shut the door behind her and walked over to where her father still lay on the sofa. He still looked tired, and now there was a pinched, worried expression on his face as he studied her. He patted a space next to him and she sat, smoothing her skirts and hoping her hair and flushed cheeks didn't reveal what she and Sandor had been doing earlier.

"Sansa," Ned began tenderly, taking one of her hands. "Is there anything you need to tell me?" Sansa stared at their hands, searching for the right words. "Septa Mordane tells me that Sandor Clegane has been living under this roof for months now, according to your wishes," he continued. Sansa nodded, meeting her father's concerned grey eyes. "Yes, he has. Father, please…will you let me explain? I don't know what Mordane has told you…" "Nothing that I haven't heard about this man before," Ned interrupted gently, and he shifted the pillows behind so he could sit more comfortably. "What I want to know is why you are so deeply connected to him."

Sansa took a deep breath, and told her father everything that had transpired in Gettysburg: how she had met Sandor Clegane again at the fundraiser, how he had been running a dangerous blockade for the North, how he had started to court her, how he tried to be there when she was mourning for Robb and Jon and Ned. She left out the night he had been drunk and escorted her home, telling her about his scars. That was a secret she would carry with her to the grave; it was not her story to tell. "When the battle was drawing near, I wanted to leave Gettysburg so as to not be caught up in it," Sansa explained, nervous as she remembered the frantic scrambling of the crowd and the horror at the hospital. "Aunt Lysa left without me, and I could find no one else to bring me home, until I found Sandor and asked him to take me. He…he kept me safe," she whispered. "Once we were back in Winterfell, I couldn't just turn him out." Ned stayed silent, digesting all she had told him. Sansa wondered if he knew she was leaving certain details out.

"And you feel indebted to him for all he's done for you?" Ned asked. "Is that why you've agreed to marry him?" Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot. So Mordane had told him that too. "I…I don't feel indebted to him, Father," she answered carefully. "I agreed to marry him because I want to. He was going to ask Mother, but…and we didn't know if you would ever come home…" she wrung her hands, hoping he would understand. Ned stroked his chin thoughtfully. "He's not exactly the man you've always dreamed about. He's not what I had desired for you either." Sansa grasped both of her father's hands, turning pleading eyes on him. "Oh, I know he's rough and course and…and no gentleman, not like what you and Mother always wanted for me. But…I…" How could she explain it? How did one put into words the depth of the fire that raged in her for him? The longing that she saw reflected in his eyes as he looked at her, how could she describe that she now felt that same longing? Sansa swallowed hard.

"I know he's done terrible things. He's told me. I know he worked for the Lannisters before. But he's his own man, Father. He has honor, even though he would never admit it and insists that he's not a good man. But I see good in him. His actions prove that." Ned said nothing, only watched her silently, and Sansa felt her heart pour over. "He promised he would never hurt me. And that he would never let anyone else hurt me. I feel safe with him. Father, I…" The words choked her, even though she longed to whisper them, to say them, to scream them, even.

Ned's face still looked worried, but it softened when he saw the tears in her eyes. "You love him," he said simply. She nodded thankfully. "All I ask is you give him a chance, Father. Please…see for yourself what kind of man he is, not what others say about him." Her father sighed heavily, then patted her hand. "There, there, child, I have no intention of turning Sandor Clegane out of the house. I will speak to him, and find out more before I make a decision." Grateful, Sansa kissed his cheek and hugged him. "Thank you, Father." Ned patted her back. "If he's here, you can tell him I wish to speak with him."

Hopeful, Sansa stood, fixed her skirts and wiped at her eyes, and exited the study. Mordane jumped when she came out, almost dropping her sewing. Sandor had remained standing, eyes fixed on an unknown place on the wall until she appeared. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Father wants to meet you," she said, placing a hand on his arm and leading him to the study. His face grew guarded and impassive, and she watched eagerly as he stepped in and shut the door behind him. Then she whirled on Mordane.

"How could tell Father all of that?" Sansa demanded, whispering so no one else in the large house would over hear. "It was not your place!" Mordane's mouth dropped open. "I am worried for you, Miss Sansa," she sniffed, her hands fluttering as she stabbed the cloth with a needle. "That man has bewitched you. You may be able to look past his inadequacies, but I cannot. He is no match for you, and it was my duty to tell Mr. Stark all that has transpired under his roof since you brought that man into the house." Exasperated, Sansa threw her hands in the air and sat down in a chair by the steps. "Fiddle-dee-dee," she sighed, crossing her arms and waiting for Sandor to come back out.

* * *

><p>The study was dark save for the late sun peeking through the drawn shades on the windows. Ned Stark was seated on a sofa, upright, though the blankets and pillows gave evidence that he had been laying. Sandor paused after he shut the door, and the two men regarded one another silently. Ned was thin and tired, as could be expected from someone who had been in prison and then walked home across states. But his steel-grey eyes still held a fierceness and determination, and Sandor respected him more for it. He remembered him from the barbecue, so long ago, as the men had gathered in one room and discussed the possible war. Ned Stark had been an unshakable figure, stern and firm, and from Sandor knew of him, he was honorable even unto death. Though he thought that honor was so strong it was stubborn and borderline foolishness, Sandor could see that Ned was a good man, a man of principle and fairness.<p>

After a moment, Ned stood shakily and extended his hand. Sandor walked forward and took it, both of them shaking firmly. "It is good to meet you at last, Mr. Clegane. Please, sit." He gestured towards a chair by the sofa, and Sandor sat, resting his palms on his knees. Ned down as well, and settled back against the sofa with a tired sigh. "I must thank you, Mr. Clegane, for negotiating my release. It is good to be home and see my children again. I am indebted to you." Sandor fought to keep from snorting. "You can call me Sandor or Clegane. I'm no mister. And you're not indebted to me." This was how Sandor expected the conversation to begin, and he already wished for it to be over. But for the little bird's sake, he would talk to her father, settle the matter of their engagement, and then he would take her away and they would never have to deal with this again. A good plan, simple, and to the point.

Ned eyed him studiously, searching his face, and Sandor did the same. "I see. Well then, Clegane, no doubt you know why else I wish to speak with you." The man folded his hands, and Sandor took note of his weariness. It was a shame that septa had been unable to keep her trap shut; as if the man didn't have enough to deal with, coming home to no wife, a missing daughter, one son dead and the other missing, and finding out that his eldest girl was engaged to a man with a less than desirable reputation. Sandor decided now was as good a time as any.

"Look, Mr. Stark, I'm not a man to play games. I prefer to get to the point and end the matter. You're an honest man, or so I'm told. I think we can speak truthfully with each other." Ned looked surprised at this admission, but he quickly schooled his features and became stern. "Very well, Clegane. Then I will ask you: did you seek my release in order to gain my favor so that you could have my daughter's hand?" "No. I didn't need to earn your favor, and I still don't. I did everything only for Sansa. I knew it would make her happy if you were home." Ned's eyebrow arched. "So then you did it to earn my daughter's favor?" Sandor chuckled, sure that his smirk was twisting his scars horribly. "I didn't need to gain her favor, either. I already had it. She accepted me before I even began searching for you." The man's brow furrowed and he frowned. "Just how long have you and my daughter had this understanding, Clegane? Sansa was not very clear on that." Sandor wondered what else Sansa had left out. No doubt the little bird had tried to paint him in the best light possible, making him out as a hero or something, though she certainly knew better. Well, he was none of those things, and he wasn't going to pretend to be.

"Since Gettysburg," he rasped. "Came looking for me, begging me to bring her home. Told her I would if she would marry me." Ned's face tightened and an angry glint entered his eyes. "So you blackmailed her into marrying you." Sandor shrugged, folding his arms. "It was a suicide mission. We would be heading right towards the Confederate army marching to Gettysburg. If we died, I wanted to go knowing that she would have been mine." Ned's jaw clenched as he stared at Sandor darkly, but he didn't back down. "I'm not a good man, Mr. Stark. I don't pretend to be. I wanted your daughter, and I seized the opportunity. But I will say she has expressed desire to marry me aside from the promise she made in Gettysburg."

Stark's eye twitched. "If you've dishonored my daughter, Clegane, so that she is now _obliged_ to marry you, I don't care what the consequences are. I will put a bullet through your head." He said it calmly, but Sandor could see the barely concealed rage, and he smirked. He was starting to like this man. "Don't worry yourself. I haven't touched your daughter. She's still an innocent little lamb, like you left her. But with, perhaps, a better understanding of the world and how things work." Ned relaxed somewhat, but the expression on his face was still distrustful. "Tell me then, Clegane. Why do you want my daughter? Sansa is beautiful, true. But that can't be all. She comes from a wealthy family, a great line. Is it money you want? Maybe status?" Sandor did snort at that. "Bugger that. I've got money, and I can easily get more without marrying into it. Status? I quite like mine already. And do you really think so little of your daughter to assume that her beauty and status is all she has to recommend her?" He couldn't help but let a wicked grin spread over his face. "Of course not! But then, why?" Ned Stark looked frustrated, yet curious.

"I want Sansa because she's the only girl that ever looked me in the eyes and face without fear. She's the only one that ever bothered to push aside her propriety and what society demands of her, and associated herself with me." The girl's father had settled down some, and he seemed more intrigued than angry now. "I would kill for her," he continued. "I've done a lot of killing in my life. Done a lot of things that most people gasp and cover their mouths and whisper about, but that's just the way it is. You find a way to survive, and you work with what you have."

"I've killed because I was paid to do it. Someone didn't deliver, I put a bullet through their skull, and I got money. I'm good at it. It's just what I do. But your daughter…she's the first person I would ever kill for and ask for nothing in return except maybe a smile or the touch of her hand." He had always told Sansa that he did nothing unless he got something in return. It was what he had learned from life in order to not be taken advantage of. But for her…that code was starting to blur a little. Not that he still wouldn't want something from her, but it wasn't about money or drink. It was about her smiles and the way her eyes shined when she looked up at him. Her soft skin under his rough hands…He wanted her to love him, and he would kill for her love.

Ned still hadn't said anything. "I'll take care of her," Sandor heard himself saying. "She will want for nothing. Your daughter deserves to be treated like a queen, and she shall be." He chuckled, thinking of all the promises he had made Sansa by the saloon, with her hair a mess and her face streaked with tears. And she had still been breathtaking. "I guess you could say this is my way of asking you for your daughter's hand." The other man leaned back, chewing over Sandor's words.

A few moments passed, and Ned pushed himself up to his feet, and took hold of a cane that was resting by the sofa. Limping, he gingerly walked to the window and looked out. Sandor waited. It did not matter either way to him if Ned Stark agreed or not to the engagement, though the former would certainly make Sansa much happier. Sandor was _going_ to have her, and if he had to steal her away and marry her secretly, so be it. She was his, and no one was going to stand in his way. The little bird might not like it, but he was sure he could convince her.

Finally the girl's father spoke. "Sansa seems to think very well of you. She has admitted to…caring for you very much." Well, he knew that. A bugger would have to blind not to see what he did when the little bird looked him the eyes, the blue orbs filled with adoration and affection. She knew who and what he was, yet she defended him and was ready to marry him despite what her septa or anyone in town thought. While Sandor didn't want her to convince herself that he was this perfect knight in shining armor, he would be a fool to turn away or dampen her obvious regard for him. Especially after their time in the orchard together earlier.

Ned sighed again, running a hand through his greying hair. "You will have my blessing," he said, turning to face Sandor. "But it is only because I want my daughter to be happy, and she seems to be so with you. Why…I may never know." He took a few steps forward then stopped, resting both hands on the cane. "It is no easy thing, giving away one's daughter to a man such as you." The steel-grey eyes locked onto Sandor's own stormy ones. "I swear to you, Sandor Clegane. If you ever hurt my daughter, if you ever make her unhappy in her marriage to you, so much so that she regrets giving you her hand…if you do anything to cause her pain, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you with my grandfather's pistol I have locked in the drawer over there."

Sandor allowed a grin to pull at his mouth as he came to his feet. "I would be disappointed in you, Mr. Stark, if you _didn't_ do that." Ned regarded him sternly, gave a brief nod of his head, and they shook hands.

* * *

><p>The rain was beating mercilessly, but that was good. Colder, but good. It was harder track people in the rain, and it was easier to hide. The dogs' sense of smell would be assaulted by distracting scents.<p>

She had been crouching in the bushes for some time, her wet coat pulled tightly around her. The signal would come, she knew. But it was taking forever. Perhaps something had gone wrong. How she longed to have joined them, but she had was ordered to stay and keep watch.

Across the barely visible dirt path, she could faintly make out the figure of a young man, also crouching in the bushes. Waiting, and waiting some more, for the signal. For someone to arrive and tell them to be ready to be on the move. It was dark, but she could see. She could see better at night than anyone, earning her the nickname of "Wolf Girl". She didn't mind. Her family sigil was the wolf, anyways. It seemed fitting.

Finally, a sound like an owl penetrated the wet air, and she tensed, looking across at the young man and nodding to him. _Be ready_, he mouthed. She rolled her eyes. She was born ready.

A few minutes more and two men came bursting through the undergrowth and into their line of site, helping three smaller and darker figures. They came to a stop, and she and the other young man hurried out of the bushes. "We almost avoided them," one man panted as he tangled with a small bundle. "But the hounds smelled us, just before the rain hit. They've unleashed them. Got about ten men on our tracks." The other figures stood huddled together, shaking and afraid, and she smiled at them. "Don't worry. Gendry and I will throw them off."

The man handed her an old, holey shirt, and she pulled it on over her coat. The boy named Gendry did the same with another shirt. "Go now, hurry. Run the trail, then dispose of the shirts and meet back at the rendezvous point. Jaqen will be waiting for you." She nodded again, and the huddled bunch continued running, leaving her and Gendry alone in the pouring rain.

She placed her hand in her pocket and felt the cool handle of the pistol. "Let's go, Wolf Girl," Gendry said, his black hair plastered to his forehead. They raced back and then off the trail, invisible to anyone else but those who knew it. After a while they heard the dog's howling and men shouting. The faint glimmer of a lantern appeared.

She paused and rubbed her shirt on a tree and made big, scuffling tracks in the dirt. Gendry did the same before he headed off in another direction. Keep them confused and try to separate them. That was the plan.

She ran, stopping every once in a while to purposefully blunder. This was difficult work, it was risky work, and she thrived off of it. The adrenaline and blood pumping through her veins as she kept just out of reach of danger; the heavy feel of the pistol in her pants. The knowledge that she was helping another find freedom. It was exhilarating.

She came to a small river and grinned. This would be a good place to dispose of the shirt. The barking dogs came closer, and she could make out the words coming out of the men's mouths. She threw herself into the river and swam, pushing against the tide but also letting it carry her, as she had been taught. She reached the middle when the men arrived on the opposite bank, shouting at her.

Then a bullet whizzed by her head, hitting the water. And another. She stripped out of the shirt quickly and tossed it away from her, to be carried down the river and disappear. Scrambling out onto the other bank, the men continued firing at her, their aim hindered because of the dark and the rain.

One of the men had splashed into the river and was swimming towards her, yelling angrily. With a grin, she pulled the pistol out, aimed, and fired. One of the men yelped, grabbing at his head. She had shot his hat off.

She tipped her head back and howled, then scurried off into the bushes, their shouts eventually dimming and fading away.

A/N: Hoped you enjoyed that! In case anyone didn't really pick up on it, Arya is helping with the Underground Railroad, a complex network that assisted escaped slaves. I'm going to do some more research to try to make it more accurate, as I have no idea if they did this sort of the thing or not, but I thought it would be a good way to introduce the lost Stark sister.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12

Sansa shifted slightly on the hard bench, her hands folded demurely in her lap. To her left, Rickon's head was bobbing as he fought to keep his eyes open. Beyond him sat Bran, solemn and still, his eyes fixed before him but with a glazed-over, far away quality. On her right was Sandor, who looked as bored and indifferent as one could possibly be. Her father sat at the end, hands clasped loosely and his head bent, gazing at the back of the pew in front of them. He seemed to be doing better, health-wise, but his first time back at church without her mother was clearly painful.

Septa Mordane sat primly next to Bran, reaching over every once in a while to poke Rickon awake. With a soft sigh, Sansa let her eyes wander over the church. The minister's voice droned on, and though normally Sansa would have sat in rapt attention, today her mind traveled elsewhere. She let her gaze drift from the pulpit to the high arches that joined the roof. Behind the pulpit was the choir box, and behind that a large cross set between two glass-stained windows. It was a simple but beautiful church, providing a calm and peaceful atmosphere. A refuge to those who were hurting because of the war. When they sang, the voices of the congregation filled the air and echoed, and Sansa was sure this was a little bit of what the angels must sound like.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Sandor again, biting back a grin at the expression on his face. He was not a church-goer, hadn't been since he was a boy, but Sansa had begged him to start attending. She wanted him to be on the best of terms with her father and the neighborhood; for them to see that he was accepted. As much as Sansa had been learning to not put too much stock into what people said about her, she couldn't stand to hear Sandor's name drug through the mud. She hoped that by association, their neighbors would end the gossiping once they saw all of them at church together.

Sandor's eye flicked to her, then slowly swept up and down her body. Sansa felt her cheeks redden, and she pretended to ignore him, adopting an innocent and unruffled air. She could feel him gazing at her though, the heat of his eyes boring into her skin. Giving away her composure, Sansa swallowed and peeked at him again. The corner of his mouth had curled up smugly, though he was no longer looking at her. Her gaze drifted down to his hands, which were sitting restlessly on his knees. Sandor wasn't a man to be still, and having to do so for so long made his fingers every so often twitch or tap against his leg. They were large and tanned and calloused, full of scars. They had killed and hurt people, held weapons of death and pain, but they could also be warm and gentle. It never failed to amaze her how such a rough, uncouth man could be so tender and even reverent with her.

His eye was on her again, watching her observe him, and she smoothed her skirts, feigning attention to the minister. But the smug curl of his mouth made her smile, and she felt Sandor shift in his seat so that his shoulder was brushing hers. The touch, however small, sent a million butterflies through her stomach. _Soon_, she thought, _we won't have to be so…so proper and distant_.

Their wedding was quickly approaching. In just few short weeks Sansa would Mrs. Clegane, and she and Sandor would leave Winterfell. It was incredible how much there was to be done for a wedding. Sansa had been busy from dawn until dusk arranging the details and her trousseau, something that should have been done with her mother. Sadness crept into her soul. Planning her wedding day without Catelyn seemed unhinged and Sansa felt so uncertain about some things. Mordane was helping her, grudgingly, but Sansa did not feel very inclined to confide in her Septa as she once had. _Oh, if only Mother were here!_ She thought for the hundredth time.

There was so much she wanted to know about becoming a wife. Sansa had been trained, of course, how to run a household, manage servants, how to entertain, sew, even cook a little. All the aspects of a woman's expected role in marital life. But that couldn't be just it, could it? Sansa had seen for herself, growing up, how her mother took care of Ned. When she had ventured to ask Mordane about these matters, her Septa had recited, "The wifely duties are to look after the house, raise the children, manage the servants, and look after her husband, to see that all his needs are met and he is happy." Easier said than done. Sansa knew that was what she was supposed to do, but her concern was _how_ to do it.

She was sure Sandor would help her. He seemed to know quite a lot about these things, though she wasn't sure how. Perhaps she should simply ask him what he expected of her as a wife. Sandor wasn't a very high maintenance man; surely he would not request too great a deal of her, at least early on. The thought was encouraging.

Sandor had been busy preparing the home they were to live at. He had found a nice spot of property, only about thirty minutes from Winterfell by carriage. The former owners were moving farther North and had sold it to him. He had acquired a nice group of servants, most of which were former slaves who had escaped to the North, looking for a new life. Sansa had met each one personally. Last week she had them meet her in the hall of the new house. "I want us all to be good friends," she said kindly, smiling. "If there is even the slightest thing that you need, please don't hesitate to ask me. I do so want this to be your home as much as it is mine." The place wasn't as large as Winterfell, but it was still lovely, simple, and Sansa fell in love with it immediately. The house was brick and pillared, with a grand dining and party room, and plenty of space for guests. Sandor planned to use the pastureland it was on to raise horses, wanting to breed Stranger before the horse got too old. There was not much to be done for the house itself except furnishings, which were being gradually moved in and expected to reach completion by the time they were back from their honeymoon. Any other needs could be acquired when they had returned.

The honeymoon was another subject of mystery to Sansa. When she asked Sandor about it, he had only winked at her and said, "That is for me to know, and for you to wonder about, little bird." A bundle of nerves was tightly coiled in her stomach thinking about the honeymoon, and especially about the wedding night. Yet another particular she wished she could ask her mother about. Mordane would likely faint if Sansa asked her. The knowledge that Sandor was…_experienced_ did nothing to alleviate her worries.

The service ended, and the choir entered the box once more. The congregation stood, opening their Psalms-books, and Sansa smiled. She loved to sing, and at last she could stand. The pew had been extraordinarily uncomfortable this Sunday. Sandor, standing tall and stiff beside her, did not sing, but she knew he was listening to her.

There was a final prayer, and they were dismissed. Rickon and Bran, who still limped, squeezed out of the pew and disappeared into the crowd to search for their friends. A couple men approached Ned and shook his hand, speaking in low voices. Sandor's hand came to rest on the small of her back. "Let's escape before all those worried mamas come pecking where they aren't wanted," he rasped into her ear. Giggling, Sansa saw the group of women, most of whom were friends of her mother's, gathered together to launch an assault on Sansa, who, in their opinion, was utterly lost without a motherly figure to save her from the clutches of the Hound.

She let Sandor guide her out of the pew and down the aisle, where they were stopped frequently by members of the congregation, inquiring after their health, etc. For the most part, they were polite to Sandor, and he answered their questions with a civility that was mustered from every recess of patience and self-control the man contained. She could predict that soon the corner of his mouth would start twitching in annoyance. Eager to prevent the Hound from emerging and biting someone, Sansa quickly led them outside into the bright sunshine.

The little boys were running about the green, while the grownups gathered in clumps to talk or picked their way to the carriages. "Sansa!" she turned and saw Jeyne hurrying towards her. "Jeyne!" The two girls hugged, laughing. Jeyne had been living with some relatives up North since Sansa had left for Gettysburg, and she had only just returned the day before. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you! How are you?" Sansa stepped back, holding her friend's hands and admiring her dress. "I'm well, thank you. Sansa…I'm so sorry about your family." Jeyne came close and hugged her again. The knot tightened in her throat but Sansa forced a smile. "I'm just so glad to have my father back," she said as they pulled away. "And the boys are in good health. We had a letter from Arya, but nothing else has been heard. But how are you? Your family?" Jeyne rattled off about her visit and all that had happened, including the latest gossip. It felt good to be with her friend again. The other girls that Sansa had been companions with had either married, moved away, or refused to talk to her any more, now that she wasn't marrying a true gentleman.

"But enough about me!" Jeyne laughed. A twinkle came into her eye. "Is it really true that you are to be married? To Sandor Clegane, no less?" Sansa couldn't stop a smile from pulling at her mouth. "Yes! Just a few weeks from now. How did you hear?" "Oh, Sansa, the entire town has been talking of nothing else! My mother told me almost as soon as I arrived home yesterday. I hadn't even taken my bonnet off." Sansa studied her friend carefully. "And…what do you think of it?" Jeyne took her hands and squeazzed them. "I think, that if you are marrying him, Sansa, he must be quite something. He looks fierce, and I hear he has a most vicious reputation, but if you're happy…then I am happy for you, my dear." Sansa could have sat down and cried right there. Dear, blessed Jeyne! She was a breath of fresh air. "Let me see the ring!" Jeyne exclaimed. Sansa blushed and held her finger up.

It was a beautiful ring. Sandor had given it to her shortly after the conversation with her father. He had led her down to where the apple trees were, in a nice, sunny circle with flowers, and proposed, properly. Even though Sansa had known it was coming, she still felt breathless and giddy as he took her hands and asked her to marry him, repeating what he had said in Gettysburg before they fled. "Bugger the promise you made to me in Gettysburg," he had growled in that deep rasp. "Marry me because you want to." It wasn't a flowery, tender speech, but that was him, and Sansa found that she was not disappointed, really, that her childhood dreams of her proposal had become this, instead. She was too happy to care. His short sentences and straight-forward words might not have made a young girl swoon, but Sansa loved him more for them.

She accepted, and he gave her the ring. "It was my mother's," he said quietly as she admired it. "I had it sent up from my old home in the South. Had to keep it hidden else Gregor would have pawned it off by now." "It's lovely, Sandor, truly." The ring was a thin band of gold, with clustered diamonds rising from the sides to form an oval shape, and large, flat pearl nestled in the middle. It was dainty and fit perfectly. Then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, long and hard, and soon she was breathless again. "I love you, Sandor," she had told him as he held her against him, her feet off the ground and her arms wrapped around his neck. Something in his eyes had changed then, and she caught a glimpse of his own vulnerability, his desperation, his most secret desires, for her; things that had probably never surfaced throughout his life, kept buried deep down under and behind stone walls. But those emotions were there, and for the brief moment he allowed them to show he had buried his face in her hair and whispered that he loved her too, as much as a "buggering scoundrel like him could love".

Jeyne praised the ring, claiming it to be perfect in every way, and that Sandor had done very well. "Would you like to meet him?" Sansa asked eagerly. "Of course! I must give the final approval, you know. As your best friend, it is my right." Their hands remaining intertwined, Sansa led her friend over to Sandor, who was standing a ways off watching their reunion. "Sandor, this is Jeyne Poole. She was at the barbecue earlier this year, at the Baratheon's." She had no idea if Sandor would remember her friend or not, but she thought it prudent to try to jog his memory. Jeyne smiled and gave a little curtsey and offered her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clegane. I want to thank you for helping Sansa in Gettysburg, when I could not be there with her." Sansa sucked in a breath, hoping he wouldn't bark at Jeyne for saying "mister", but to her relief Sandor only quirked the side of his mouth and took her hand. "Jeyne. I remember."

Her friend glanced between them a couple of times, smiling, and clasped her hands. "You make a lovely pair. Don't get me wrong, it's all terribly scandalous, but I think it's kind of wonderful, too. Sansa, dearest, do you need any help with the wedding preparations? I helped my cousin, Elizabeth, just the past summer so I learned a great deal." Sansa, blushing from Jeyne's previous statement, thanked her gratefully. "That would be so nice. There is so much to do, with only Septa Mordane to help me. I feel a bit overwhelmed." "Well, don't you worry. I'll come over first thing tomorrow and lend a hand." Sansa could have kissed her feet. Sandor was regarding them both with amused scrutiny. "You say it's scandalous," he directed to Jeyne, "but you don't seem to mind all that much." Sansa bit her lip, but Jeyne raised her chin and linked arms with her. "Sansa Stark is the finest girl in the county, and my friend. And if she wants to marry you, then…then I guess it's alright!" People were staring at them now, and Sansa jerked Jeyne closer. "Hush now!" But Sandor was laughing. "Maybe the Union army could use a couple of girls like you two!"

* * *

><p>Just as she said, Jeyne arrived the next day and she and Sansa sat upstairs, drinking tea and making lists of things that needed to be done. "What are you bringing on the honeymoon, Sansa? Do you know where you're going?" "No, Sandor hasn't told me. He said not to bring too much, though, because he wants me to be able to buy new things while we are gone." "My, my," Jeyne said mischievously while she took a dainty little bite out of a cookie. "That man sounds like he's going to spoil you."<p>

The wedding was going to be a small affair. Sansa had once dreamed of a large, frivolous occasion, but that wouldn't be proper during war time. Materials were scarce anyhow, and it would be a waste to use things that could be put towards the army. Winterfell was still stable, but everyone had taken a blow when the Confederates had marched through on their way to Gettysburg, and the war meant that trades and goods were priced higher and in greater demand. Sacrifices had to be made. Sansa didn't mind though. Her wedding would still be beautiful. It was taking place at Winterfell. Septa Mordane had declared that it should be in church, but Sansa had shot that down quickly. "It will be at Winterfell. I will feel closer to Mother that way. And besides, if it is at church then everyone will be buzzing about, poking their noses in." Mordane had exclaimed, "Well!" and insisted that Sansa was beginning to sound like "that man".

Ned Stark watched quietly as his eldest daughter made her preparations, and Sansa made sure she spent time with him, asking for his advice. He still seemed so tired, so sad, the lines in his face were deeper and his eyes only held warmth when he saw her or her brothers. Sansa knew he missed Catelyn, and she felt badly for leaving him too, soon. One night she went to his study and held him for a long time, smoothing back the greying hairs. "Father, I won't be far away, you know. I can always come over to Winterfell in a jiffy." Ned took her hand and patted it, sighing deeply. "I know, my dear girl. It is just always hard for a father to see his daughter become a woman. It seems only yesterday I was wiping your tears because you had fallen and skinned your knee racing with the boys." "Poor Father," Sansa murmured and kissed his head. "You mustn't be sad. You still have Bran and Rickon, and I know Arya will return some day. You all must come and see me whenever you like." Sandor and Ned did not become close in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but there was a mutual understanding between them. Sansa could only hope that one day Sandor could become a son to him.

At last the preparations were complete. Sansa's wedding dress had been fitted one last time, and now hung from her changing screen. The dress was long and white, with lace at the bottom of the skirt and at the ends of the sleeves. She was wearing her mother's veil, a delicate, light thing that Sansa barely trusted herself to handle. Some flowers from Winterfell's gardens were going to be pinned to the waist. Her bags were packed, except for a few last minute articles that would go in when she changed for their departure. Her travel clothes had been laid out as well. There was nothing more to do but to wait for the next day to arrive, and Sansa felt as though it was still a long way off.

Jeyne arrived with her bridesmaid's gown. She was to spend the night at Winterfell so she could help Sansa in the morning. The minister was going to arrive at promptly at nine o'clock, and the ceremony would begin at nine-fifteen. Just thinking about it made Sansa's hands shake, and she was grateful once more for Jeyne's steady presence. The girl had helped her down to the very last detail, for both the dress and the ceremony, and Sansa was left feeling much more confident about the day than when she had only had Mordane to help her. The woman was continually sniffing and wiping at her eyes, not out of happiness, but because she was sure Sansa was going to ruin herself by joining with Sandor. Jeyne nicknamed her "the black cloud".

The girls were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the cooler weather and sipping cider. "Just think," Jeyne said dreamily, "by this time tomorrow you will be Mrs. Sandor Clegane. I can't believe you are getting married!" "Yes," Sansa agreed quietly, rocking in the chair. She had not seen much of Sandor in the last few days, as he had moved into their new home and was busy arranging things there. _That will change after tomorrow_, she thought. _We will never be parted again_. The idea both thrilled and frightened her. She hoped she wouldn't panic during the ceremony, and voiced her concerns out loud. "But you'll be going on a fabulous honeymoon, Sansa! I bet he's taking you somewhere splendid. Think of all the things you're going to see. Think of all the shopping!" Sansa couldn't help but giggle with her, and the girls began to discuss what kinds of dresses she should buy and what the latest fashions were. "Oh, I shan't sleep a wink tonight!" Sansa declared, stretching her arms out. How could she sleep, knowing that tomorrow her new life was to begin, and she would be thrust into the undiscovered world of marital life? _Sandor will help me,_ she reminded herself as they ate a light dinner. It was all she had to hold on to as she bid her brothers and father good night, and climbed the stairs to her room for the last time as a Stark.

Sansa's head fell on the pillow, and before she knew it Jeyne was shaking her awake. The sun was peeking through the curtains as Sansa sat up, blinking groggily. Her eyes landed on her wedding gown and she gasped. "I'm getting married today!" She squealed as Jeyne attacked her with a cold wet washcloth and soon the girls were jumping all over the bed, laughing, until Mordane burst in and scolded them. "Both of you behave yourselves! Miss Sansa, this is no way to for a bride to act on her wedding day!" "Oh, I don't care!" Sansa sang as she twirled about the room. "I'm so happy!" "Humph," Mordane replied, shaking out Sansa's underthings for her to wear under the dress. "You sound as if you're going to marry a respectable young man, instead of that devil, Clegane." "Septa, please. Sandor is very good to me," Sansa admonished while she combed her hair out.

In the end Mordane bit back her grumblings and together with Jeyne they helped Sansa into her wedding dress. Sansa decided to leave her hair down, only pinning back a section for the veil. Jeyne climbed into her own gown while Mordane helped Sansa pin the flowers on. "Oh…Miss Sansa…you do look beautiful," the septa finally admitted, wiping tears from her eyes. "You look just like your mother." Sansa swept Mordane into a hug until the septa pulled back and exclaimed that she was going to wrinkle her dress and that simply wouldn't do.

The moment had arrived. Sansa could hear the carriages pulling up and voices drifted up the stairs. Sandor was down there by now. Only some very close friends and some of the workers would be attending, all people Sansa had known since birth, but for a wild instant she did not want to face any of them. _Stop being silly_, she chided herself as they left her bedroom and entered the hallway. Thank goodness she had a bouquet to hold on to, though the poor flowers would likely be crushed by her vice-like grip on the stems.

A few deep breaths later Sansa found herself sweeping down the stairs and into the larger, formal parlor. She saw her father and brothers, and a variety of other faces until she latched onto Sandor, waiting for her by the minister. The ceremony itself was a blur, and only later would Sansa wish she had paid better attention. All she could think about at the time was Sandor's tall, strong frame beside her, her hand in his arm, and how very hot it felt in the room. When vows were to be said, Sansa half-expected her voice to be shaky and faint, but she surprised herself by answering in a clear, calm tone. Sandor spoke his vows in a deep rumble, his voice like stones scraping together, and Sansa shivered in delight at hearing it.

They turned to face one another as the minister went on more about the vows and read some passages, and Sansa let her eyes travel over Sandor chest, clothed in a very functional, fine suit, and eventually met his gaze. He was looking at her like he had at the barbecue: a hungry, burning expression that made her feel a little weak. The corner of his mouth pulled into a small, half-smile, and he squeezed her hands. Sansa allowed herself be lost in his eyes, barely hearing what else the minister said until he announced them man and wife, and Sandor kissed her. A short, chaste kiss compared to their others, but it sent a streak a fire right to her stomach.

Then it was over, and Jeyne was helping her to the dining room for the bridal breakfast. Sansa and Sandor were seated together in the middle of the table. Through the doorway she could see into the drawing-room, where a small mountain of presents was displayed. Opposite her was the wedding cake, a lovely creation built in Winterfell's kitchen. The table was strewn with yellow flowers and the décor was accented with greys and whites. They were served coffee and tea, and the guests talked freely and laughed as they feasted on poultry, lobster salads, jellies, and little dishes filled with fruit and cream.

Sansa was, naturally, consistently addressed and required to engage in conversation, while Sandor sat mostly silent next to her. It didn't bother her much as she was familiar with his temperament, but she did wish they could be let alone for a few minutes so she could share a word with him. At one point while everyone seemed to have their mouths full or the attention was directed elsewhere, Sansa turned slightly to Sandor, offering him a shy smile. He met her eye and smirked, his hand coming to touch hers, resting her lap. "Enjoying yourself, little bird?" he rasped low near her ear. His proximity was invigorating after not seeing him for a while, and Sansa basked in his harsh, scraping voice. "Yes…though I do wish we might cut the cake soon," she whispered back. Cutting the cake announced their departure, but it couldn't take place until the guests had eaten their fill. Sandor chuckled and scraped his teeth slowly across his bottom lip as he appraised her. "Eager to leave, are we?" She blushed and looked down on their joined hands. "It's just that…I have missed you." As much as she enjoyed his attentions and even the lusty grin that now adorned his mouth, Sansa hoped no one was watching them. It wouldn't do for one of the female guests to faint from witnessing Sandor's heated expression sweeping over the bride.

His thumb caressed her knuckles and he gave her a wink. Out of the corner of her eye sansa thought she saw Mordane glaring daggers at Sandor, probably wishing the man would burst into flames and disappear. She decided to ignore her and a little of propriety by scooting a little closer to Sandor, who observed her movements in amusement.

At last the cake was served, and next came the opportunity for any toasts the guests wished to bestow upon the new couple. Jory gave a short one, then Ned stood to his feet, resting one hand on the table so he didn't have to use his cane. "Sansa," he said softly, his grey eyes gentling as they rested on her. "I'm very proud of the woman you have become. I know that Catelyn would be proud of you, too." Sansa's bottom lip quivered slightly as she smiled at her father. "You have the kindest, most compassionate, loving heart a father could ask for his daughter to have. I love you, my dear." He sat down as everyone clapped and took a sip of their drinks. A few others offered well-wishes to them and paid compliments to Ned and her brothers.

After this was finished Sansa stood and walked into the hallway with Jeyne, where she gave her bouquet. As the bridesmaid's duty, Jeyne visited each guest, granting them one flower from the bunch until the bouquet had been distributed. Sansa watched, smiling, while she twirled a flower she had selected for herself. She would have to remind Mordane to dry and press it for her. Then she was led upstairs to peel off the wedding dress and slip into her more comfortable and practical travel clothes: a lovely dark purple gown and boots. The maids had removed Sansa's luggage during the breakfast and it was now waiting in Sandor's carriage. When everything was settled and Sansa was sure had not forgotten anything, she swept away again down stairs.

Sandor took her hand and led her past the guests wishing them farewell and out the front door, clearly eager to be on their way. "Goodbye!" she called back, waving. Her father stood by the carriage, smiling softly. "I'll help my daughter in one last time," he told Sandor. The scarred man nodded and handed Sansa off to him. She kissed his cheek and he hugged her, and lifted her into the carriage. As she arranged herself, Sansa overheard Ned say, "Take good care of her, Clegane." Sandor said something she could not hear, but the two men shook hands, and then Sandor had climbed in next to her. A servant was driving for them so that the carriage would not be left at wherever they were heading.

Winterfell was soon left behind in a cloud of dust, and Sansa sighed and settled back against the seat. Sandor's arm snaked around her shoulders and he pulled her in for a kiss. "Hello, little wife," he growled between the soft nips he was placing upon her mouth. She giggled and snuggled closer to him. Sandor had not changed except to loosen his coat, and his tie had been discarded somewhere, leaving the top of his shirt unbuttoned. "Hello, husband," she answered shyly, running her hands down the front of his chest. He gripped her waist possessively and pulled her even closer, lavishing kisses over her neck before claiming her lips again. His attention on her was halted only when they reached the train station, and Sansa felt breathless and red all over from his mouth's assault on her fair skin. She had to fix her skirts and hair while Sandor snickered. "Don't laugh," she pretended to scold. "You're the one who has made me look blown about, like tumbleweed." "On the contrary, little bird, I think you look ravishing with your hair and dress in disarray," he rasped, smirking and seemingly pleased with himself.

They boarded the train, and Sandor grumbled under his breath about having to keep his distance from her now. Even though they were now married, displays of affection like what they had been exchanging in the covered carriage were not acceptable in public. Sansa patted his arm and risked a few stares place a kiss on his cheek. "Are you going to tell me now where we are going?" she asked as the train pulled out of the station. Sandor stroked his chin, contemplating the question with exaggerated hesitance. "No, I think I'll wait." He pulled off his coat and draped it over the arm of the seat, and stretched, cracking his neck before settling back. The train departed, and she watched as the land swept by in a green blur.

Sansa didn't realize she had drifted off, resting her head on his shoulder, until Sandor was gently patting her and murmuring, "Wake up, little bird." With a start, she realized the train had reached another station, though she couldn't quite see where. Sandor took her arm and led her from the train, pausing to give some instructions for their luggage. Sansa gazed about, trying to get her bearings. The sun's position indicated mid-afternoon. She must have slept for quite a while, and felt somewhat embarrassed for that, when she should have been keeping her husband company. Sandor didn't seem to care, however, when she attempted to explain. "There is nothing to be sorry for, little wife," he assured her, taking her hand again. "You needed your rest."

He guided her through the busy station until they reached the other side, and Sansa gasped. They had reached a dock, where a large steamer was waiting. "Oh, Sandor, please tell me where we are going!" she begged, clutching his arm excitedly. He laughed and wrapped a finger around a curl of her hair. "Alright, little bird, I guess you've waited long enough. We'll be taking this steamer to Boston, and from there we will be taking another for Paris." Sansa's mouth dropped open in astonishment. She had never been to Europe! "Sandor! Paris! Truly?" And tossing lady-like behavior aside she threw her arms around him. "Oh, you're wonderful!" A deep, throaty chuckle answered her as Sandor caressed her hair. "Now, now, little bird, there will be plenty of time for you to tell me how amazing I am later." Sansa released him with a blush, but her excitement returned when they were finally climbing the ramp to board the steamer.

It wasn't until they were being led to their room that Sansa recalled that this was her wedding night, and a weight of nervousness and anxiety replaced her initial joy.

The stateroom was large and elegant, separated in two: the front room contained a couch and chairs and a table, and a door off to the right indicated the bedroom and washroom. It was decked in bright but comfortable colors, and some flowers were on the table with a little note from Jeyne. Sansa stood, wringing her hands as the orderlies brought in their bags and Sandor directed them. When they were finished and at the door, Sandor said something in a low voice to them before placing some money in their hands and shutting them out.

They were alone.

The shades had been drawn to keep out the bright sun, so the room was dim with soft splashes of light here and there. Not knowing what to do, Sansa slowly tugged off her gloves, glancing about her. Sandor stood watching her for a moment before he went over to a little ice bucket on the table by the flowers. "Champagne?" he asked. She nodded, a little excitement returning. She had only tasted champagne once, at one of the Baratheon balls. Sandor poured them each a generous amount into glass flutes and handed one to her.

She took a dainty sip, wishing her heart would stop trying to beat its way out of her breast. Sandor was drinking from his glass, looking perfectly at ease, and Sansa wished he would at least pretend to be nervous too. His eyes danced around the room briefly before settling back on her, leisurely taking her in while the champagne level lowered in the flute.

Sansa's hands were trembling so badly she set the glass down, fearing that she might drop it. Sandor set his down then, too, and he stepped forward until his frame toward over hers and his arms once again wound themselves about her, trapping her against him securely. "Little bird," he rumbled, kissing her first on the nose, then her forehead, and at last her lips. Sansa accepted his touches, hoping they would dissolve her tumult of uncertainty.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sandor rasped, taking her face in his hands and piercing her with his eyes. They had turned from a stormy grey to almost black, and Sansa found herself transfixed by them. "I know," she whispered. Satisfied, Sandor moved one hand to run up and down her back soothingly while he began to press kisses and licks to her neck. "The pretty little bird is now my pretty little wife," he growled against her skin. Sansa closed her eyes, losing herself to the sensations as a slow-burn rose steadily within her. His mouth came to hers, and he kissed her fiercely, with a passion she had not previously witnessed. Her hands had been placed on his shoulders, but now she tentatively let them explore, running up and down his arms and chest, reveling in the hard muscle she felt flexing underneath his shirt.

Sandor seemed to like her ministrations, for he growled and lavished attention to the other side of her neck. One of her hands came up to dig into his dark hair, pulling gently, and she moaned when he sucked a spot just under her ear. The sound caused him to groan, and suddenly he ducked and lifted her into his arms. "And now I'm going to teach you to sing," he growled against her mouth, and he carried her into the bedroom.

* * *

><p>AN: Yeaaaaaaa no sex scene. I don't write those. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter just the same!

I feel like Jeyne doesn't get enough love in the fandom, so I decided to have fun with her character and have her be supportive of the match.

I'm posting pictures of what I imagined for Sansa's wedding dress and her ring on my Tumblr page.

Here's a link to the website where I got some ideas for the wedding ceremony. Interestingly, they had breakfasts instead of dinners, at least when the bride and groom were there. After they left, sometimes the family members and relatives would have a dinner or go somewhere to relax for the day.

/wordpress/2012/04/how-to-get-married-in-the-1860s-and-early-1870s/


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Mentions of the "night before", but not descriptive enough to be explicit or mature. I kept them vague, but hopefully they still get the point across: they're having a real nice honeymoon. Enjoy!

Chapter 13

A sunbeam escaping through the blinds woke Sansa. It fell directly across her eyes, and she winced and shifted, but no matter which way she rolled, the sunbeam followed her. In resignation, she sighed and slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness.

Instead of her bedroom, she saw crisp white walls with a flowery, framed picture. A brown desk was situated in the corner provided with all the necessary needs for letter-writing. A small dresser was pushed against the walls, with a mirror hanging over it.

Sansa frowned, closing her eyes then opening them again, trying to focus on her surroundings. Where was she…oh! Memory flooded back to her. She was on her honeymoon!

Opening her eyes wider, she turned to look next to her. The bed was empty save for her, but the washroom door was closed and she thought she heard the sounds of water running.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa stretched her arms, yawning, and began to sit up when the white coverlet fell and she realized she was naked.

With a gasp, she jerked the covers back up to her chin, freezing in place. Why was she not wearing a nightgown? She must have forgotten…she must have fallen asleep after…

Her face flooded with heat, as the _other_ memories returned as well. Slowly she sank back into the thick pillows, clutching the covers to her as she remembered.

Sandor had been everywhere. In the darkness of the bedroom, her entire senses had been filled with him until she had felt she couldn't breathe, and she didn't care. Sensations such as she had never even imagined had propelled her into a sweet oblivion. She had wanted to drown in him and fly, higher and higher. Nothing else in the world mattered except his touch and his deep, grating voice whispering things in her ear that should have scandalized her.

Oh, she loved him. She did. She loved him, she loved him.

Sansa smiled and bit her bottom lip, trying to stifle a giggle. She felt so happy, ready to burst, and also something else that was indescribable to her, yet it filled her veins and Sansa knew she wanted more of it. Sighing dreamily, she glanced at the rest of the bed, noting for the first time how mussed the covers were.

The washroom door opened and Sandor walked out, bare-chested but clad in a pair of trousers, with a towel thrown over his shoulder. He saw she was awake and stopped. Little droplets of water clung to his well-chiseled abdomen and Sansa blushed furiously as she met his gaze.

Without a word, he slowly walked around the bed, trailing his fingers over the covers. His eyes were their usual stormy color, but it was plain to see the hunger in them as they trailed over her face, her messy hair, her collarbone, her shoulders. His mouth held a shadow of a grin as he finally reached her side and sat down.

Her heart thundering in her chest, Sansa cleared her throat and offered, "Good morning…Sandor." The hunger in his eyes softened, and he gently traced his fingers over the hand resting in her lap. "Good morning, little bird. Sleep well?"

"I…I suppose so. Yes. And you?"

"Better than I have in a long time."

They regarded each other quietly as Sansa struggled with a sudden bought of shyness. _Stop being ridiculous_, she chided herself. _You are a married woman. He is your husband_. But she couldn't help it. She felt a little giddy and uncertain. No one had ever told her what the morning after was supposed to be like.

Sandor moved a little closer, placing his arm over her so that his palm rested down on the mattress. Sansa wanted to throw herself at him, but she opted for placing a hand on his shoulder instead, while he searched her face intently. "Did I hurt you?" he asked abruptly. Sansa's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before she realized what he meant. "Oh...no, Sandor." She smiled tenderly, wanting to alleviate his concerns. "Last night was…was wonderful." He exhaled roughly, and finally allowed his mouth to curl into a smirk. The ice was broken, and they simultaneously relaxed.

He leaned forward then and claimed her mouth eagerly, and she responded in kind, almost dropping the covers she still held to herself. Sandor slipped his tongue in her mouth and she moaned a little, arching towards him and a chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. "We'll be docking in Boston soon," he rasped softly, giving her lips another lazy nip. "I sent for breakfast before you woke." He turned his head to the side so he could kiss on her neck.

Sansa sighed happily and closed her eyes. "I suppose I must get dressed then," she whispered back. "Unfortunately," he replied, making her giggle. He gave a parting kiss on her mouth then stood, walking over to their suitcases that were placed neatly against the other wall. "Which has your dressing robe in it?" "The small green bag, on top."

He rifled through it and brought her the blue robe, refusing to avert his eyes as she put it on, and chuckling when her face grew red. "Nothing I haven't already seen, little bird," he growled as he gathered her in his arms again. Sansa pushed aside her need for modesty and pressed herself against him, relishing the feel of his skin under her cheek. "I love you," she murmured. He squeezed her a little tighter and nuzzled her hair. "I love you too, little bird."

They dressed and ate a breakfast of tea, fruit and eggs on the little deck outside their room, watching as the harbor grew closer. Their bags were repacked and picked up by an orderly, and soon they were making their way down the ramp once more.

Sansa and Sandor spent two days in Boston before taking the steamer to Paris, staying in a nice little hotel. The ocean trip felt incredibly long but they kept themselves occupied, and it was often that they stayed abed almost the entire day, lounging in the thick white covers and pillows with the windows open. Sansa had no idea if other newlyweds did this sort of thing, but she needed hardly any persuasion from Sandor. A few of the other passengers would give them strange looks if they didn't resurface for day or two at a time, but Sandor would only return their nosiness with a mocking glare, and Sansa simply ignored them. She was too happy to care.

Paris was beautiful. Sandor told her she was going to get a neck cramp from twisting her head around to look at everything. "I want to see it all," she told him. "I want to remember it in my mind after we go home." Sandor had booked them a large room at a lovely hotel, and Sansa squealed with joy when he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder as soon as they were alone, heading for the giant bed.

They visited numerous cafes and monuments and theaters, and Sansa also began her shopping. Most of her clothes at home had begun to be too small, and she was excited and a little overwhelmed to be bombarded with ribbons and lace and fabrics of every shade and pattern. The French seamstresses cooed over her bright hair and white skin while they took measurements and dressed her, even asking about her honeymoon and her husband. "Vous êtes dans l'amor, oui?" Sansa had, thankfully, paid attention to her French lessons and was able to chatter easily with them. She was surprised by how well Sandor spoke it, though he often didn't say more than was necessary. He usually went to the gentleman's club in the hotel to hear the news while she shopped.

Part of the sitting room was filled with boxes and packages and Sansa ended up unwrapping everything to show her husband. She wasn't a frivolous girl any longer; the war had taught her to save and go without, so she made sure to get what she really needed. There were plenty of fine dresses for the coming winter months back home, and some nice formal gowns. "What about me? Did you get me anything?" Sandor teased one evening. Sansa pulled out a silky nightgown and laid it in his lap, batting her eyes coquettishly, while he howled in laughter. "See here, little bird. As much as you'll look stunning in this, you'll only be wearing it about ten seconds before I rip it off of you."

Sansa gasped, fueling his mirth, and she pulled the nightgown away from him, pretending arrogance as she pranced away from him to drop it back in its wrappings. "Very well then, _husband_, I'll just return it." Sandor feigned seriousness, pointing his cigar at her for emphasis. "Don't you dare even think of doing such a thing, _Mrs. Clegane_."

Sansa laughed then and skipped over to sit in his lap, covering his face with kisses. He was doing all of this for her, she knew. He wasn't the type of man to enjoy the wonders of Paris on his own; he preferred more rugged, simple approaches, like when they had slept in the barn. She wanted to make him as happy as he made her.

She asked him one night, as they lay on their bed, tucked into his arms. "Sandor," she whispered. "Are you happy?" His hand had been leisurely trailing up and down her back, but now it stopped and rested in her hair. He didn't answer for a few minutes, and Sansa wondered if she should have asked.

"I don't know much about happiness, little bird," his deep voice filled the dark room. "Don't know much about love either. Never expected to." There was a pause, and Sansa found herself holding her breath. "You remember that story I told you in Gettysburg, about how I got these scars?" How could she forget? "Yes," she answered, moving her fingertips gently across his stomach and through the hair on his chest.

"That wasn't the only thing my brother did to make my life, my family's life, a living hell."

She swallowed and waited for him to continue, fixing her eyes on a spot on the wall. His hand resumed stroking her hair.

"Gregor kept growing increasingly violent. After he burned my face, my father became afraid of him. Couldn't control him, as time went on. I had to learn how to fight back, keep him off me and our sister." Sansa was surprised. She didn't know he had a sister.

"A couple of years after he burned me, he came home drunk. He had been out with some of the Lannister men. He was only twelve, but already huge, and most men steered clear of him. My sister…she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I wasn't there to help her." His other fist clenched, and Sansa watched it with a growing horror.

"He pushed her down the stairs. Broke her neck. Everyone pretended it was an accident, like my face. But I knew."

"Killed my father off a few years later. Hunting accident. Rifle went off and shot him in the back of the head. And…well you know the rest, little bird."

Something wet slid down her cheek and Sansa realized she was crying. "The world is made and built by killers, little bird. My brother's a killer. I'm a killer. The Lannisters are killers. This country, most of them, are killers. Don't forget that."

A hard lump had settled in her throat. As much as she wanted to disbelieve him, to refuse what he said, she knew it was true. She had seen enough death and sickness in that hospital to know that.

"There's still good people in the world," she whispered as more tears slipped out of her eyes. Sandor suddenly shifted and rolled them over onto her back, hovering above her. "Aye," he said, wiping at her face. "Like you, little bird. And _you_ make me happy, undeserving as I am."

With a little cry, Sansa pushed up and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Sandor, my love." She felt her heart breaking at the thought of him growing up constantly terrorized by his brother and living with a face that branded him as a monster to most. To have known nothing but hate and brutality for most of his life, forcing him to become hard and bitter. The pain of it curled around her chest and she hurt for him_. My poor husband. _This new knowledge only strengthened her resolve to bring happiness and love into his life.

"Shhh, don't waste your tears on me, little bird," Sandor said huskily, rubbing her back. Sansa pulled back to look at his face, still clinging to him. "It's not wasting tears, Sandor. I only wish that I could do something." He snorted and placed a kiss on her forehead. "What are you talking about? You've done everything, Sansa." He eased her back down against the pillows and propped himself up on his forearms, trailing her cheek with his finger. "Such a pretty little thing, innocent and kind. I'm a selfish dog for taking you. And I don't care." Sansa leaned into his touch. "You only took what was given to you. Do not berate yourself, Sandor. I love you so." His jaw clenched and he claimed her mouth, kissing her hard.

Sansa pressed herself to him, giving him herself, and later when he had buried his face in her chest, just under her chin, and she touched his cheek, she found a wetness there that was not her own.

* * *

><p>Arya adjusted her belt and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. It was unladylike. Good thing she was pretending to be a boy. It didn't matter then.<p>

She and Gendry were walking to a town. They were to sit and listen and look. The war raged on, and would for a while more, Jaqen said. Which meant that slaves would still be trying to escape. Some of them were even joining the Confederate army, fighting to keep themselves in chains, Jaqen said.

Arya really was hoping to hear of news from the North. It had been a long time since she had written home, and she had not heard much of Winterfell except a brief mention of the Confederates passing nearby on the way to Gettysburg.

"Am I dirty enough?" she asked Gendry as they reached the town's outskirts. He gave her an odd look. "You're dirtier than I am. Why?" "It's easier to be a boy when you're dirty. I look less a girl." Arya had cut her long brown hair in favor of a shaggy mop that reached her chin. It was a good thing she wasn't prissy or concerned about such things like Sansa was. Pants were also much more comfortable and practical.

"You're dirty enough to look like a beggar," Gendry told her with that stupid laugh of his. "Come on." They strolled into town, moving in between carts and horses. The South had taken a big hit from the war, and prices on food and other goods had skyrocketed. A man was standing on a crate hollering about the army and President Lincoln.

Gendry led her into a General Store, where a group of men, too old or wounded to fight, were chewing tobacco and sitting around a little pot-bellied stove. They shuffled in and stood by, glancing around and keeping their ears perked.

"What about you, Kent? What news from the Lannister lands?" one old man croaked out. An ugly, blond haired man with a red nose spat into the fire. "Not much to tell. Still got most of the slaves. Some run off, but we find them quick with the hounds. Joffrey's wife, Margaery, she expecting a baby any time now."

Arya arched an eyebrow. Sansa had wanted to marry Joffrey once. She wondered if her sister knew that Margaery was pregnant.

Another man suddenly chuckled as he lit his cigar. "Speakin' of hounds." He hiccupped and took a swig from a little flask. "The old Lannister Hound, the younger Clegane, he gone got himself hitched." "No, truth?" "Yessirrr. And guess who he fixed himself up with?"

"Who?"

"Why, I'll tell you. The pretty Stark girl, Miss Sansa."

Arya froze and Gendry's eyes snapped to her from where he was pretending to look at some farm tools.

Sansa, sweet, ladylike, Sansa, who loved handsome gentlemen and tea parties and silks, had married _the Hound_? It couldn't be true. It had to be a rumor. The man by the stove was drunk. Sansa would never marry _him_. Not ever. That was like marrying a real Lannister.

"No kidding?" the old man guffawed. "As true as I'm sittin' here," the other man answered with another swig from his flask. "Course, you've all heard about the rest of the Starks?"

"Sure," said the blond man. "Mr. Tywin told me himself that Robb Stark was dead in battle, the bastard boy was good as dead. They got Ned Stark locked up in Kentucky, 'round abouts. Mrs. Catelyn died of the fever, heard tell."

A cold dagger sliced into Arya's chest and she wheeled around, stubbing her toe on a barrel and almost knocking it over as she stumbled out of the store. Gendry came after her, saying something, but she didn't hear him.

She staggered around the back and gripped the rough wooden wall, gasping for breath as the world spun under her feet. Her stomach roiled and she felt sick. Gendry grabbed her shoulder and she jerked away. "Leave me alone," she groaned, sinking to the ground.

A/N: I kind of love this chapter. It's okay, Sandor, you can still be a tough guy and cry ;) The Arya sections will get longer, not to worry.

Also, gentlemen clubs weren't…what they are now (usually). They were places where men could go to smoke and drink and read the news or play cards. Some had dining rooms. You usually had to have a membership, but some were open if you were of a certain status or had the money. No women were allowed, either. Sounds like little boys with their treehouses, huh? ;)


	15. Chapter 15

Sandor stood at the window of the balcony, looking down on the city sprawled out below him while he finished the end of a cigar. The smoke was let out through the window, which he had opened a crack so that the smell would not permeate the room. It let in some cold air, whispering across his bare chest and arms.

The night was quiet save for some distant singing echoing from a distant music hall. Sandor checked his watch, noting that it was almost midnight. He closed the window and stamped out the cigar in an ashtray, then walked to the bar to pour himself a drink, making sure to be quiet.

He was expecting a message, and he wanted to be awake to receive it. Sandor had learned that being cautious and aware of everything was what could keep you alive. Not that he thought the person bringing the message would possibly make an attempt on his life, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Taking a seat in a ridiculously ornate chair, Sandor scooted it so it faced both the front door and the bedroom, and placed his revolver on the table beside him.

He took a sip of his drink and glanced towards the open bedroom door. It was dark, but with the faint moonlight streaming through the window he could just make out Sansa's sleeping form, her perfection hidden under the thick blankets. Sandor contemplated her while slowly swirling the contents of his glass. Now there was a real beauty.

Sandor had brought chosen Paris for most of their honeymoon not only because he wanted to make her happy and give her something else to focus on besides the war and the pain of losing family members. The Union army and the government were not done with him, and shortly before the wedding he had been approached with an offer to do some business in France.

Both sides were trying to garner support from other countries, and certain ambassadors and other important members were in France. Though France preferred to remain neutral, Edouard Thouvenel, the Foreign Minister, and other political leaders favored the U.S. over the struggling Confederacy. Sandor's job was to monitor any meetings and political movements that Napoleon or others might make which could concern the war. Since Sandor was planning on Paris for the honeymoon anyways, it would be his alibi in case something happened with the French government. He would also be involved in some blockade running, though his part would mostly be concerned with gathering the supplies rather than delivering them.

Tonight he was waiting on a message from another American who had spoken to him earlier in the gentlemen's lounge of the hotel. There was a rumor that Tyrion Lannister was in France, in Paris specifically, and if he was able to coax any wealthy representatives into supplying the Confederacy, it could mean a possible turning point in the war. The American told Sandor that he was going to explore this rumor and try to discover Tyrion's location, and if he was successful, he would deliver a message to Sandor. A simple slip of a note under the door.

Sansa did not know about this message, though Sandor had told her that the Union had asked him to be involved while they were in France. He wasn't a liar, and he didn't want to worry about hiding things from her. Sansa had been very understanding and even encouraging of it, as long as he promised to stay safe. Sandor had snorted at that and shown her the revolvers he had brought. He didn't like politics, but the government was paying him well for this, and Sandor was not going to turn down some extra money. If he was going to work while on his honeymoon, then the reward better be worth it.

His eyes adjusting to the dark, he watched as Sansa's form stirred under the covers, and he longed to crawl back underneath them with her. _This note better arrive soon_, he thought bitterly. _Taking me away from a decent night's sleep with my wife_. Sandor was a light sleeper in general, but ever since Sansa was now sharing his bed, he found slumber came easier, and his mind was not as plagued by nightmares.

The girl had blossomed during their honeymoon. When they were on the steamer, she had gained a healthy glow to her skin, making her more beautiful than ever. Sandor still could not believe his good luck at finally having her. Sansa was a goddess, a rare, delicate creature that didn't belong with a dog like him, yet it gave Sandor a great satisfaction in knowing that she had chosen him above any other man. He was a dog, yes, and he would not turn away from such a delicious offer. Her rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes were things he was glad to wake up to every morning, along with her soft skin and sweet lips. He loved every inch of her, inside and out, and nothing pleased him more than to have her wrapped around him, her bountiful red hair spilling across the pillows.

Such thoughts made him almost discard his intention to stay up for the message and climb back into bed, and wake her up so he could lavish attention on her lovely figure. He was just about to set his glass aside and make good on this when he heard a muffled movement in the hallway.

Sandor slowly set the glass down and reached for the revolver, the familiar feel of the metal fitting into his palm. He walked to the front door and stood, listening. More muffled footsteps, then they came to a stop on the other side of the door.

He took a few steps back and to the side, his finger loosely on the trigger, waiting. A moment later, an envelope slid under the door, and the footsteps faded away.

Sandor waited a little longer until he was sure no one was outside, then he stooped and picked up the envelope. He walked back to the window and ripped it open carefully, using the moonlight to read the short message.

_TL is here. No confirmations of support yet. Be careful. He knows you are here. _

Sandor re-read it, clenching his jaw. How did the Imp know where they were? He might have read about their wedding in the papers, but Sandor had told no one where their honeymoon was going to be. Which only meant that the Lannisters must have been watching their movements before they even left American soil. Did that mean they knew he was working for the Union? Or were they after something else? Sandor had a pretty good idea of what it was.

Distaste filled him as he walked to the fireplace and grabbed a match. He lit a flame and held the paper of it, watching as the parchment turned brown and curled. He tossed it into the old embers and watched until nothing was left but ashes. It was a good thing they were leaving in a couple of days. It would be easier to kill him in another country over the U.S.

He would get no rest tonight, he knew, but he made his way back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge, taking off his shoes and pants. Sansa rolled over and murmured, "Sandor?" He glanced over his shoulder at his little wife, her eyes blinking sleepily. "Can you not sleep?" He finished pulling off his trousers and climbed under the covers, gathering her into his arms. "I might be able to now," he whispered huskily, breathing in her scent. Sansa smiled and snuggled against him, sighing softly. The nights had grown colder so she wore a nightgown, but the material was fairly thin and Sandor growled at the feel of her soft curves against him. He moved one of the sleeves aside so her shoulder was bare and he began to nuzzle and kiss it.

Sansa giggled and ran her hands up his chest to hold them around the back of his neck. "I love you, husband," she chirped, pressing her face into his chest. Sandor tightened his arms around her. No matter how many times she said it, those three little words were still something he was struggling to comprehend, coming from her, of all people. He should be satisfied and pleased; after all, wasn't that exactly what he'd wanted? To get her to love him and give herself to him completely? Yet he couldn't stop that niggling, dark whisper of doubt, blackening his mood, telling him that she was only said she loved him out of duty, because it was expected of her.

Pushing the thought away and determined to not let his insecurities get in the way of such a moment, Sandor pulled back so he could kiss her deeply, and he gently laid her back down against the bed, covering her until both their bodies were flush against the other.

* * *

><p>Today they were leaving Paris. The bags and suitcases were packed and ready to be brought down into the lobby, to be loaded onto the carriage that would take them to the port, where they would board another steamer. Sansa sat in front of the dressing table, putting the finishing touches on her hair and glancing around the room to make sure they were not forgetting anything.<p>

Sandor was dressing by the bureau, and Sansa snuck looks at him while she pretended to be fussing with her own attire. His strong, muscled body was a never-ending source of curiosity to her, and she loved watching him without his shirt on. With a blush, she imagined what Septa Mordane might say if she knew.

"Either quite peeking at me or get over here, woman," Sandor rasped as he calmly slid his arms into the sleeves of his white shirt. Sansa gasped and colored. "I…" Then she sat up straighter and turned back towards the mirror, sticking her chin in the air. "I am perfectly within my rights to watch my husband dress if I so choose." Sandor chuckled darkly and smirked at her. "Is that so? Well, wouldn't you rather touch?" He started towards her, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and Sansa squealed and darted away from the dressing table. He caught her easily and prevented her weak attempts at a struggle by holding both of her arms.

"Sandor! The orderlies will be here any minute!" Sansa gasped as he started kissing and nipping his way up her neck. "They still have to knock, don't they?" he responded, licking her ear. She shivered and gave in, leaning into his chest, and his warmth encased her. "That's better," he murmured soothingly, making her walk backwards until she felt the wall behind her. "The honeymoon isn't over yet, little bird," he growled as his hands roamed over her body. "Just because we are going home doesn't mean the fun is over." He nipped at her collarbone. "You're a very wicked man," Sansa scolded him while she craned her head back to give him more access. "You talk so scandalously." "I didn't hear any complaints last night," Sandor answered, and silenced her gasp with a heated kiss.

A knock sounded on the front door, and Sandor reluctantly released her from his grasp. With a wink, he headed out of the room to let the orderlies in, while Sansa hurriedly fixed her hair and straightened her dress, flustered and red from his attentions. He was right, she did like it when he spoke lewdly to her; it made her feel strangely naughty and excited. She didn't like to admit it though; ladies weren't supposed to act that way. Were they?

The weather had taken a cold turn, and Sansa was glad of her new furs to keep her warm while they rode to the port. As Sandor was taking care of their papers and the luggage, Sansa stood near the railing, observing the steamer and the people milling around them, when her eyes settled on a familiar and unexpected person. With a jolt, she whirled around and hurried to Sandor's side. "My dear," she spoke softly, pretending nothing was amiss and she was merely taking her husband's arm for support, "Look behind us." Sandor glanced at her face and saw her expression, then he casually looked over his shoulder.

She could feel the muscles in his arm tense as he turned back around and began to walk to the steamer.

"I see him."

"Do you think he'll be on the same steamer as us?"

"It's likely."

"Oh dear."

"Don't worry. He won't cause trouble on the steamer. That's not his style, anyways."

They were forced to stop by a large crowd moving towards the steamer, and it wasn't until they were walking up the ramp and had boarded that she began to breathe easier and loosened her iron grip on her husband's arm.

They were given their room, a smaller stateroom than before but still lovely, and their bags were placed inside. As soon as the door closed Sandor locked it and then pressed his eye to the small peephole. Sansa stood behind, wringing her hands until he stepped back. "Do you think he has seen us?" she asked. "Of course he has," Sandor grunted as he walked to the bar to pour a drink. He had been doing very well back home, staying away from liquor, so Sansa let him do as he pleased on their honeymoon. "Don't fret, little bird. Now he's just another passenger like we are. Any trouble and he'll be arrested once we reach Boston." He was right, and so Sansa tried to relax. The man had never really been cruel, that she knew of, but just seeing him reminded her of all the things she had heard about the giant plantation in the South…how the slaves were treated…And Sandor had told her briefly why the man was in Paris in the first place.

It wasn't until the next day when they were strolling along the deck that they met him face to face. "Mr. and Mrs. Clegane, what are the chances! I must offer you my congratulations." "Thank you, Mr. Lannister," Sansa answered politely, while Sandor remained silent. "Please, my dear, call me Tyrion. We are not strangers, are we, Clegane?" "No," was her husband's singular reply. The short man was not miffed by Sandor's behavior. "Please, allow me to get us all a drink, so I may toast you," Tyrion offered graciously, and called for an orderly.

They took a table, and a waiter poured them champagne. A tall, weathered-looking man with a lofty tilt to his mouth had been standing with Tyrion, but when they sat down he moved off a ways down the deck. Sansa did not know who he was. Not much was said until they had all sipped from their glasses, and Tyrion turned to give Sansa a sympathetic look. "I am sorry to hear about your mother and brothers, Sansa. Catelyn Stark was a great woman, and your brothers were very brave to be fighting in the war." He sounded sincere enough, and Sansa managed a small smile. "Thank you, Mr….Tyrion. I miss them very much." "Of course. It must be a comfort to know your father is safe, at least," he said, not unkindly.

Sandor shifted next to her, but his expression was unreadable to her beyond his usual scowl. "I think a great many more people will die before this war is over. It is a pity," Tyrion continued, taking another sip of champagne. "Indeed," Sansa agreed quietly, wondering where this was all going. She decided to change the subject. "Is your family well, Tyrion?"

"Yes, I suppose so. You heard about Robert passing? Such a shame. He always threw the best parties and could out drink anyone." Sansa did not know how to answer that. "Joffrey and Margaery will be expecting their first child soon," he added. "Oh…" Sansa had read about their wedding in the paper months ago, when she was in Gettysburg, but she had not heard that news. "I offer them my congratulations," she said politely. Sandor gave a queer sort of huff and drained his drink.

Tyrion seemed to, finally, decide to relieve the tension by excusing himself. "I must be off. There's an Englishman who boasts he can be me at cards, so, naturally, I must prove him wrong. Keep the bottle of champagne, if you like. Perhaps we shall run into each other again." He kissed Sansa's hand and nodded to Sandor, who merely tipped his head in response. She watched as the short man waddled away, and the other man rejoined his side as they walked below deck to the lounge.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," she said, relieved. Sandor didn't answer, but his clenched jaw told her he was uneasy.

They barely saw Tyrion or his "henchman" as Sansa liked to call him, for the rest of the trip, but they didn't leave their room often enough to run into him to begin with. They resumed their honeymoon, and mirrored the previous lazy days they had spent on the first steamer to Paris. As much as Sansa was eager to begin their new life together in their new home that was waiting for them, a part of her did not want the trip to end. Time had seemed to stand still, and it was only her and Sandor, with no one to bother them unless they requested a maid or an orderly. Sansa had never spent so much time undressed in her whole life, but Sandor seemed to greatly prefer her so.

She had been given a letter from Winterfell when they left the hotel in Paris, but in all the excitement, Sansa had forgotten it in her bag until one morning when she was pulling out a new robe. Her other one had met with an "accident"; Sandor had spilt tea on her lap and insisted that the only way to clean it was to take the robe off. Which led to taking more clothes off. Which led to postponing breakfast.

Wrapping the new robe around her, Sansa sat in a chair at the table, opening the letter and nibbling at a piece of toast. Sandor emerged from the bedroom, a satisfied smirk on his face as he sat down in his own chair and reached for more eggs. "Apologies on the robe, wife," he snickered, giving her a lascivious look. "I hope I made it up to you." "I can't very well say yes, for then you shall ruin all my clothes," Sansa answered sweetly, lifting her legs up so that her feet rested in his lap. Sandor chuckled and continued eating, while his hand stroked her ankles.

She went back to the reading the letter from her father, which started off fairly normal until about the third line down. "Oh!" she cried and almost kicked Sandor in the groin. "Watch it there," he rasped, gripping her feet. "I'm so sorry…Sandor, Father had received a letter form Arya!" Sansa hurriedly read more. "He says…that she found out about Mother, and Robb and Jon…and she's coming home…but she won't say where she is…" Swallowing hard, she let the letter drift into her lap.

"My poor sister…I do hope she isn't alone." Worry clawed at her stomach. Sansa could not lose another member of her family.

Sandor placed her feet on the floor and reached over to pull her into his lap. "There, there, little bird, I'm sure she will get home safely. That girl sounds like she can take care of herself." He was probably right, but Sansa had not seen Arya in almost a year, and the concern for her sister's well-being would not disappear. "But she's so young, Sandor. I am afraid for her. What has she been doing all this time?"

"We'll find out when she makes it back to Winterfell," he answered, kissing her neck. Sansa hugged him, eager for his comfort. "I shall send a response to Father when we reach Boston. Will we be there long?" "A day. The train leaves for Winterfell the morning after the steamer arrives." She nodded and sighed, focusing on his large hands running up and down her back.

_Please be safe, Arya_, she prayed. _Please return home to us_

* * *

><p>Arya had just finished packing her bag when there was a knock on her door. "Come in," she answered dully. Gendry walked in, his hands in his pockets. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" he asked. She rolled her eyes. "No. I've got a gun. I'll be fine. Besides, they need you here."<p>

She checked to make sure the little pouch of bullets was secure before she tied a cord at one end and strung it over her neck. Gendry watched her, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "It's dangerous…" "Everything is dangerous," Arya spat, putting on an extra pair of socks. "I'm not afraid." She was, actually, but she couldn't let him know.

Gendry placed his hands on her shoulders and she tensed. "Mi-Arya, I just…I don't want you to get hurt. Or cuahgt," he said softly. She looked up into his unnaturally blue eyes. His black hair was shaggy and unkempt. He should cut it so he could see. Stupid.

"I'll be fine," she insisted. Then she felt badly and placed a hand on his arm. Lady-like courtesies had never come easily to her. "Thank you, Gendry, for everything. Come to Winterfell if you ever get a chance." He nodded, and Arya slipped on her pack and walked out of the room.

Gendry followed her down the stairs into the large room below. It was empty, save for a tall, lean but built man sitting casually in a chair near the fire. He had long red hair with a white streak in it. "Ah…Miss Arya, you are leaving," he spoke, with a strange accent. Arya thought it might be French, but she had no paid enough attention to her French lessons to know for sure.

"Yes. I have to. My family needs me." She hesitated. "I…maybe I can come back. Or help out up there." The man, Jaqen, was quiet, studying her with eyes that made her feel that he knew every secret, every lie. "Alone?" he said. "A girl should not travel alone." "I'm not a girl," Arya protested, pointing to her short hair. "I am a boy, and a boy can travel alone."

A/N: I'm sorry Arya's section is so short, but the next chapter is going to open with her, for once :)


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Sorry this update took so long!

*UPDATE: I have gone through and edited out the word. You'll know when you come to it. I apologize if it offended anyone or distracted from the story, that was not my intention.

* * *

><p>"I know you're there!" Arya announced, halting abruptly and throwing her pack onto the ground before spinning to face the woods behind her, fists on her hips. "You can come out now." Gendry emerged from the trees, wearing his own pack a sheepish look. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Did you think I wouldn't notice you following me?" she demanded. "Were you just going stalk me all the way to Winterfell?"<p>

"I'm sorry," Gendry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But I just couldn't let you go back home alone. At least let me help you." Arya frowned at him. It would be nice to have company, but it was faster to travel alone. But Gendry was good at making traps. "Ugh!" she threw her hands in the air. "Fine! But I better not hear you call me "Miss Arya". It's Aaron until we set foot in Winterfell." Gendry held up his hands in mock surrender. "I got it, _Aaron_."

Arya wouldn't admit it, but it was good to have Gendry with her. He didn't talk much, and she enjoyed his quiet companionship. They had been partners in the Underground Railroad for months now, but they had not really spent time together that consisted of anything besides working to free and assist escaped slaves. And since the journey ahead of them was long, Arya tentatively began asking him about himself.

He told her he was an orphan, but had been taken in by a blacksmith, who had become the closest to a father he ever had. "He was rough around the edges, y'know…but kind in his own way. Kept me fed and taught me my trade." Gendry had wanted to enlist, but he was too young, they said. Then the blacksmith died, and he was kicked out by the relatives who wanted nothing to do with a bastard orphan. That's when he discovered a group of people at a safe house who were dedicated to helping slaves escape the South. "Been with them ever since," he finished, biting into an apple. "What about you? Must've grown up in a big fancy house and servants, I reckon."

Arya rolled her eyes, but knew he meant no harm. He was merely curious. So she told him about her brothers and her mother and father, and fields and woods and the servants. And Sansa. "I still can't believe she married the Hound. It's not like her. She and Jeyne Poole were always discussing boys like Joffrey Baratheon and Harry Hardyng." Gendry shrugged, tossing his apple core into the bushes.

"Maybe she's changed. War changes people."

"Maybe."

"Maybe he ain't so bad."

"Maybe."

They had decent weather, and could almost always find a rabbit or a bird to eat. The Confederate camps were the biggest obstacle in their path; since there were scouts everywhere, they would have to make a wide birth and go far out of the way before they could trek back to the roads and paths to the North. At night they slept in the trees. Once they were so hungry they stole onto a farm and stuffed their bags full of vegetables until the field-hands saw them and hollered. They had had to run like lighting to escape.

"You sure we're going the right way?" Gendry asked one evening as they crossed over a hilltop. "Of course we are." Arya pulled out the compass Jon had given her before he left for war. It was her most prized possession, and she checked it often, even when they were stopped to eat or sleep. She would turn it around and around, watching the needle spin in different directions. "No matter what happens," Jon had told her. "This needle will always point you home." And a swell of pain would rise up in her so she would have to bury her face in her coat to muffle her tears. If Gendry ever heard her crying, he never said so, and for that she was grateful.

She wasn't sure how much time had gone by since she left the safe house, but Arya was sure they had to be getting close. A few days away, maybe a week. She thought about stealing a pair of horses, but Gendry argued it would be too risky and the last thing they needed was to be pursued for horse theft. They would hang you for that.

"I guess soon you'll be wearing dresses and looking like a girl again," Gendry commented. Arya raised her brow and shot him a look. "I suppose….Septa won't let me wear these pants," she answered sorrowfully. "What are you going to do when we get there?" The tall boy beside her shrugged. "Dunno. See if there's work to be had. People always need a blacksmith, I reckon." Arya bit her lip. She wanted him to stay at Winterfell, but there was no point in saying anything until she got there. Would Sansa and her new husband be living in the great house? Would her sister and younger brothers be upset that she had left? As much as she wished to be home, the closer they got, the more apprehensive Arya became. What if they didn't want her there?

Both of them breathed a sigh of relief when they came across the first Union camp and discovered they were on the borders of Pennsylvania. "Home. I'm almost home," Arya whispered. Even the air smelled different.

They passed farms and little towns that had clearly suffered from the war and the short-lived invasion of the Confederates. A kind woman with apple red cheeks gave them a dinner of venison and corn pone one night, and filled them on the newest developments. She was a chattery thing but Arya felt badly as the woman's boys had died in Gettysburg.

The day they reached a signpost that pointed for Winterfell, Arya fell to her knees and cried and cried, while Gendry stood there and let her. Then they found a creek and Arya washed her face and hands and even her short hair, which had begun to grow to her shoulders over the weeks of traveling. Her clothes were like rags now, and even her sturdy boots were worn to the soles from walking. But she was almost home.

The road became familiar, as if she had never left. She passed houses of people she knew, but didn't go inside. They wouldn't recognize her anyway. She passed one lovely brick house that had all the doors open, and as they cut across the field she saw a tall dark-haired man standing in pasture with a group of horses.

The road grew wider, the houses grew fewer and farther apart, and without realizing it Arya began running. Ignoring Gendry calling after her, some unknown, newfound strength coursed through her veins and propelled her forward. Just a little farther, just a little farther. Around the bend appeared a worn, faded sign, and beyond that, just down the path, was Winterfell. She flew past the sign, and din't stop until she was racing up the front steps that she had gone up down her whole life, grabbed the door handle and turned it, bursting into the front room.

Septa Mordane was walking by caring a tray of tea, which she promptly dropped on Arya's sudden appearance and screeched. "Who do you do you think you are, rushing in and scaring people half to death, you young scamp!" she cried. Arya's face split with a grin. "Why, Septa," she drawled, "Don't you know me?" "Know you? Why would I…" the woman trailed off, and stared at her hard, then she burst into tears and the next thing Arya knew she was being hugged so tightly she was sure her rubs would snap. "Miss Arya! Oh Miss Arya! Thank heavens you've come home!"

"Mordane? What's going on…" Arya turned her head at the sound of a voice she'd never thought she would hear again. Ned Stark stood in the doorway of his study, leaning on a cane. He looked thinner and more tired than she had last seen him, but he was there. Safe. A mist clouded his eyes as he gripped the door frame. "Arya…my daughter…is that you?" Arya pulled out of the septa's arms and threw herself at her father. "Father! It is me! I'm home," she sobbed.

* * *

><p>Sansa and Sandor arrived home…not at Winterfell, but <em>their<em> home. They were greeted by the servants, who took their bags and settled them into the parlor for tea. "It's good to see yeh folks back," Lucinda, the new housekeeper, proclaimed cheerily. "Mrs. Clegane, you look right purty, more'n when you left." Sansa blushed and patted the housekeeper's arm affectionately. "Thank you, Lucinda, you are so kind." She smiled at some of the other servants who were peeking around the doorway. "That reminds me! I have presents for all of you! They're in the green bag upstairs." "Now you just keep settin' and rest your feet up," Lucinda clucked. "Presents can wait till later, I 'spect. Go on now." She shooed the other servants away and left Sandor and Sansa alone.

"They're wonderful, Sandor," Sansa commented as she took a sip of tea. Her husband stretched out his legs, swallowing his tea in one mouthful. "Aye, that they are." "Where did you find them?" she asked, selecting a lemon cake from the little china dish. "Knew them from before," Sandor answered, with a wave of his hand. "Came from down South." He eyed her for a moment. "It doesn't bother you that escaped slaves are working here does it?" "Oh no, Sandor, of course not!" Sansa knew it was not allowed for anyone to shelter escaped slaves, or give them work, but this was one area of the law she would not uphold, and she was glad Sandor felt the same. "I was only curious. I'm glad they're here."

Later that evening Sansa gathered the servants in the parlor, much to their surprise, and gave them their presents, and had them say all the names, as it had been a long time since the wedding and she had only briefly met them before that. And that night she and Sandor slept for the first time in their new home.

Now that the honeymoon was over, Sansa embraced the responsibility of being a true lady of her own house, or the "missus" as Lucinda called her. Not only did she observe and oversee the running of the day to day activities, but she also continued to help returning soldiers and their families by cooking large platters of food or offering a shoulder to cry on. Sandor bought several horses with the intent of breeding them with Stranger, and he spent a lot of time out in the pastures with Bill and Tom, his helpers, setting up the stables and padlocks and fences. Though they were both busy, they still made sure to set time aside for each other: having quiet lunches and dinners or walks down in the valley.

One day Sandor took her outside and told her he was going to teach her how to shoot a gun. "I don't know," she fretted as he set up tin can targets on the fence. "You can do it, little bird. I want you to learn, in case something happens and I'm not here." He was insistent, so Sansa accepted and tried to focus on the lesson. First he showed her how to load and unload the gun, then made her practice over and over until she could do it without a second thought. He taught her the names of all the working parts and even how to disassemble it to a degree. Then he showed her a stance, how to hold it away from her face, where to look. She had a hard time paying attention at this point, because he was standing behind her and all she could focus on was his warmth and his arms around her. Sandor teased her then for blushing and kissed her a good few minutes before stepping back and telling her to begin.

Sansa did not do well on her first round, and she sighed dejectedly as Sandor gave her more bullets. "It's alright, you've never done it before," he said. "Keep it steady. Focus on your target." His voice was low and raspy in her ear, and Sansa was determined to hit at least one can.

She hit three.

"That's the way, little bird," Sandor grunted in approval. "Keep that up and you'll be able to hit a person no problem." Thrilled as she was with Sandor's praise, Sansa felt uncomfortable at the thought of shooting anyone. But she kept that to herself.

A couple of weeks later, on the first chilly day of the Fall, a man came to their home. Sandor was far out in the pastures, and Sansa had given most of the servants leave to go to town. Only Lucinda and Bethy were with her. "It's a day for coziness," she declared, and had them join her in the parlor for hot cider and freshly baked cookies. A knock on the door interrupted their gaiety.

Lucinda went to answer it, and she came back with an uneasy expression on her plump face. "It's a Mistah Wilson to see you, Missus." Sansa had been relaxing on the chaise lounge, but now she quickly stood, straightened her skirts and hair, and allowed the man to be shown in. "Mister Wilson, was it?" she greeted, hesitantly shaking the man's hand. He was short, mousy sort of man, with shifty eyes and thinning grey hair. "Yes Ma'am," he answered in a thick, oily voice. "Is Mr. Clegane available?" "I'm afraid he not, at the moment," Sansa replied politely. "Is there any way I can be of service?" The man looked her up and down with a sort of smirk. "Perhaps. You see, ma'am, the state of Pennsylvania has sent me to inspect all the homes in the county."

Sansa was puzzled. "Inspect them for what?" "Escaped slaves, ma'am. There has been a great number moving into the North, you see, taking shelter in homes, and naturally, they must be sent back to their masters." She studied the man before her, frowning. "If I understand you correctly, sir," she said stiffly. "You would send these poor, mistreated, abused people back to the ones who put them in chains and treated them like cattle, all while we fight a seemingly endless war to free them in the first place?" Mr. Wilson cleared his throat and smoothed his tobacco stained moustache. "Mrs. Clegane, try to understand. Slavery is still legal, and as the law dictates, any escaped slave found in the North must be returned to their masters promptly."

Through a crack in the kitchen door behind him, Sansa could see Lucinda and Bethy peering out anxiously. "Well," she said, drawing herself up and clasping her hands in front of her. "We have no slaves in this house, sir, so you may take your inspections elsewhere." The man gave an ugly smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. "Are you quite sure about that, Mrs. Clegane? How long have those "servants" of yours been here?" "I fail to see how that is any of your business, sir," Sansa answered, growing indignant. "It is my business," Mr. Wilson prodded, becoming testy himself. "If I find out you've been sheltering n-s who belong back on the plantations, it will mean a whole heap of trouble for you and your husband. And if I may speak plainly, ma'am, no n- is worth that kind of inconvenience."

The house was silent save for the faint ticking of the clock. Mr. Wilson, obviously assuming he had won this little match, relaxed and began fumbling for a notebook. "Now, mayhaps you didn't know they were runaway slaves or not. Those niggers can be mighty crafty. Perhaps I should just have a talk with them."

Sansa felt her eye twitch, and all her reserves of patience and composure evaporated.

Without a word, she reached out and grabbed Mr. Wilson by his ear and jerked him so hard he lost his balance, allowing her momentum to drag him out of the parlor and to the front door, which she opened with her free hand, while the man winced and hollered for her to let go. She shoved him so hard that he stumbled across the porch and fell backwards down the stairs, landing in a bewildered pile on the front yard.

"How dare you," Sansa seethed, red hot anger blazing through her. "How dare you come here and insult and threaten my household! How dare you call them that name! I told you before, there are no slaves in this house, _sir_. Everyone is here is of their own free will, and free to leave whenever they wish it." Mr. Wilson stared up at her, his mouth working up and down, trying to formulate an answer. Sansa marched closer to the steps and looked down at him, furious. "Get out of here," she hissed. "If I see or hear that you've set so much as a toenail on this property again, I'll have my husband take a horse whip to your backside! And if you try to come sneaking around here when he's gone, I know where he keeps his revolver, and I know how to shoot it too."

The message finally sunk in, and Mr. Wilson scrambled up, cast one more look of horror and shock towards the house, and scurried off to his horse as fast as his short legs could carry him. Sansa watched until he was galloping down the road, then she sighed and turned around. Both Lucinda and Bethy were staring at her with their mouths open.

"Lawd have mercy, Missus," Lucinda breathed. "You sho rained fire and brimstone down on him!" Sansa looked at her for a moment, then she burst out laughing. Cluthcing her side, she sat down on a chair in the hall and laughed, remembering the shocked expression on Mr. Wilson's face. Before long Lucinda and Bethy joined her, mimicking Sansa's actions. With tears in their eyes, they gathered in the parlor once more to resume their tea.

At dinner that night, Lucinda relayed to Sandor what had happened to Mr. Wilson, and Sansa was sure she had never seen Sandor laugh so hard. He pulled her into his lap, chuckling. "My little wife is becoming quite talented at throwing people out of the house." Sansa blushed but leaned into his embrace, while Lucinda bustled out of the room, chortling under her breath. "I honestly don't know what came over me," Sansa confessed. "You had every right to be upset, little bird. That man is a nasty rat. I've seen him sniffing around other farms down the roadside." He chuckled again, nuzzling her neck. "You getting all hot-tempered is a sight I'd like to see, sometime." Then he sobered, an angry glint coming into his eyes. "Aye…if that man comes back, I'll do more than take a horse whip to him, little bird, you best believe that. Filth."

Then he hauled her up in his arms and carried her, squealing and kicking, up the stairs and to their room.

Sansa had only seen her father and brothers a couple of times since her return, and she decided the next day that she would pay them a good long visit. She had been so busy lately that she had grown tired and even slept longer into the mornings. "You don't need to fret about the nest so much, little bird," Sandor advised her once. "You'll only wear yourself out." Perhaps he was right. Armed with purpose, Sansa ate a late breakfast with him then returned upstairs to put on her riding clothes. Sandor had given her a beautiful mare, sweet-tempered and the color of honey. Sansa fell in love with her immediately, and named her Sunshine.

Just as she had tied up her boots and was searching for her hat, Lucinda burst into the room. "Missus, the Mistah says you're to come downstairs right quick!" Confused, Sansa gathered her skirts and hurried down the hallway to the stairs. "Sandor?" she called as she descended. "What is it?" Her husband walked through the front door, and behind him she saw someone galloping away on a horse.

"He came from Winterfell, little bird, with some news." Her hand froze on the banister as she reached the bottom step. A smile unfurled on Sandor's face as he regarded her. "Your sister has returned."

With a cry, Sansa leapt towards him, clutching his arms. "She has? Arya? Oh, I must go to Winterfell immediately!" She hurried for the door, but Sandor caught her wrist. "I will go with you. The horses are being saddled. You don't think I'm letting you run all the way there, do you?" As much as she wished she could just fly away down the road, Sansa knew there was sense in his words, and she paced the porch impatiently until their horses were led up for them.

They both galloped towards Winterfell, but it seemed to Sansa that it was taking forever for them to reach her old home. The servant from earlier was waiting for them in the yard. Sansa swept off Sunshine before he or Sandor could help her and bounded up the front steps.

"Arya!" she called as she entered the hall. "Father!" The study opened to reveal Ned Stark, his face wet with tears but happier than she had seen him in a long time. "Sansa! Please come here, my dear." Sansa brushed past him, her eyes searching the room frantically until they landed on a figure sitting on the chaise. She had short, shaggy brown hair and was very skinny, but it was Arya.

"Sansa!" Arya stood, and the two sisters flew at each other, hugging and sobbing and laughing. Ned came and hugged them both. "Oh, Arya, look at you! You've grown!" Sansa gushed, feeling her sister's shorn locks. The younger girl blushed a little, taking in Sansa's appearance. "You look well, too, Sansa. Is…is everything…" her question died as Arya dark eyes focused behind them, and she turned. Sandor stood in the doorway, watching the little reunion.

With pride, Sansa, released her sister to walk over and take Sandor's hand, bringing him closer. "Arya, this is my husband, Sandor Clegane." Arya's face settled into a hard and suspicious expression, glancing Sandor over. "So it is true," she muttered. Perplexed, Sansa asked, "What do you mean? And aren't you going to say hello?" "It's alright, little bird," Sandor rasped. "I expect she's heard all kinds of things about me after spending time in the South. That's where you've been isn't it?"

Arya looked surprised, then she bristled. "How would you know that?"

A/N: Sorry it's shorter, but it was really more of a filler chapter, for me anyways. I'm ready to launch into the next step of the plot!


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long! I'm not 100% happy with it, but I'm glad I was able to get to this point in the story. Hope you like it!

They were all gathered in the dining room, being served dinner. Arya was glaring mistrustful daggers at Sandor, who maintained a straight expression of indifference. Sansa glanced between them nervously. She wanted them to be cordial with one another, but even after she had assured her sister that she was in love with him and he with her, Arya still remained wary and suspicious. "You didn't hear the things I heard about him," she hissed as they washed upstairs for dinner. "What he and his brother have done…"

Sansa had whirled on her then. "Sandor is nothing like Gregor," she claimed. "And I know the sort of man he is. I know what he's done." "And yet you married him?" Arya scoffed, crossing her arms after trying to wrangle a comb through her tangled cropped hair. "Yes," Sansa answered softly. "I will tell you more if you let me. Arya, I know he's rough and crude and has a rather…unseemly reputation…but there's more to him than that. And I love him." She had taken her sister's hands, pleadingly. "Please try to understand." Arya had only sighed and moved away.

Now they sat in an awkward silence, broken only by the occasional clinking of silverware. When the servants left the room, Arya spoke up again. "You never answered my question," she said to Sandor. "How did you know I was in the South?"

Sandor shrugged. "I only suspected it. You confirmed it. Besides, it made sense: sending that letter with no signature or address. Why would you do that if you were in the North, where it's safe to send letters to your family?" Arya narrowed her eyes at him and sullenly reached for her soup. Ned sighed, reaching to place a hand on Arya's shoulder. "The important thing is that you're home, safe."

Sansa bit her lip._ She_ wanted to know what her sister had been up to. "What did you do in the South?" she asked lightly, stirring her soup absently. Arya seemed to consider her answer as she carefully tore a chunk of warm bread. "It's not really something I'm supposed to talk about," she said. "If the wrong ears hear, it could mean trouble for a lot of people." At that she glanced in Sandor's direction, hinting that he could be the wrong ears. Sansa frowned, and reached for her husband's hand. "Arya, you can trust us."

Her sister seemed to get angry at that. "I do trust you," she said. "It's him I don't trust." "He's my husband," Sansa protested. "I'll never trust anyone who worked for the Lannisters." Arya's fists were clenched in the skirt of her dress. Bran and Rickon were staring at their plates. Their father sighed, running a hand over his face. "Arya, daughter, Sandor is no longer involved with them. He's been good to Sansa and your brothers, and I trust him. Is that enough for you?" Arya looked uncomfortable and shifted her gaze.

Sandor had been quiet, and Sansa stole a glance at him, wondering at his reaction. His face was passive as he watched her sister, but his eyes were filled with that dangerous blackness, and Sansa knew what would happen if Arya pushed too far. She squeezed his hand under the table, hoping to calm him.

"You don't know what you're talking about, girl," he rasped finally. Arya's eyes met his with a ferociousness that made Sansa lean back in her chair. "Don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about," she spat. "I've seen what they've done. I know things. And I know what the people who work for them do. People like you." Sandor snorted at that. "You know nothing about me, girl. Don't assume I'm like the slavers and foremen that the Lannisters dote upon." Sansa blinked between the two of them, confused. Slavers?

Arya glared at him. "I know what your brother is like. I saw what he did to slaves. You-" Sandor's fist suddenly smacked the table and he stood, his chair falling to the floor. He pointed his finger at Arya, the rage on his face freezing them all in their place. "Do not compare me to my brother. Ever. Do you understand?" Eddard stood too, tossing his napkin down. "Clegane, control yourself. That is my daughter you're speaking to." Sandor's black eyes met Ned's icy grey ones, and after a minute, he reached down and picked the chair up, slowly taking a seat once more.

Sansa's hands were trembling as she folded her napkin and placed it on the table. "Excuse me," she said softly, scooting her chair back and standing. She could feel Sandor's eyes on her, but she turned and left the room without glancing at anyone.

She walked out onto the porch, following the wrap-around until she arrived at her favorite swinging seat. Sighing, Sansa sat and closed her eyes. The air was cool, brisk even, and she regretted not bringing a shawl with her. The dress she wore was warm, but not one to wear during colder nights. Hugging herself, she stared out over the fields, swallowing hard.

Dinner had been a disaster. Sansa was not only frustrated with Arya, but with Sandor as well. She understood that he was upset that Arya had mentioned Gregor, but she feared his outburst would put him and her sister even more at odds, and would ruin her father's opinion of him.

Arya was stubborn as always, and but she had gone too far this time.

The combination of stress from the ruined evening and her tiredness over the past few days made Sansa feel a little weak.

Sansa wasn't sure how long she sat there, swaying gently in the swing as the twilight shifted into night, before some heavy footsteps approached her. "Little bird?" His deep rasping voice caressed her, and Sansa struggled to keep her emotions in check. She was always forgiving, always understanding, but this time he needed to know she was upset.

Sandor sat down next to her, resting his elbows on his knees and loosely clasping his hands together. "Are you alright?" he asked. Sansa picked at a thread on her skirt. "Yes…I just needed to be alone for a bit." He nodded slowly, the scared of his face twitching. "Do you want to stay here tonight?" His question surprised her. "Why?"

"Thought you might want to spend more time with your sister. And….I know you're angry with me." He turned towards her now, reaching for her hand, and Sansa let him, quietly savoring the feel of his rough palm on her soft one. "You married a dog, little bird, and he still bites when provoked. But, I shouldn't have snapped like that at your brat sister. I'm sorry I made you upset." He kissed her fingers, gazing at her pleadingly, and Sansa's heart was melting, but there was more she needed to say.

"You were upset, Sandor, and I understand that. But your anger frightens me sometimes. I worry for you." Sansa had not seen him that wrathful since they'd been married, but before, especially in Gettysburg, she had seen what his anger was capable of, and it worried her. Not for herself, for he would never hurt her, but for himself.

Her husband sighed and ran a hand over his face, looking as tired as she felt and somewhat abashed. "I know, little bird. Her mentioning my brother just…" his jaw clenched, unable to finish the sentence. "I will speak with Arya," Sansa said gently. "I do want both of you to be…amiable, towards each other. Please try to control your temper around her, Sandor. Will you do this for me?" Sandor's eyes, now a deep grey, searched her blue ones, and he nodded again. "Aye, I will, little bird." She smiled, and leaned forward to place a tender kiss on his cheek. "All is forgiven, my love. Let us go home. I will come back tomorrow."

They stood, and Sandor led her back into the house so that they could say their goodbyes.

* * *

><p>Sansa visited Winterfell almost every day after that evening, eager to spend time with her sister and catch her up on all that had happened. The boy Arya had brought back with her, Gendry, had been taken on to help as long as he wished to stay. He seemed nice enough, and knew his manners, and Sansa liked him quickly. There was something familiar about his black hair and clear blue eyes, but she couldn't say exactly what. Ned had gone silent when she mentioned such to him.<p>

Arya continued to be wary and watchful of Sandor, but she did not mention Gregor again. One day she and Sansa had a picnic under a cluster of oak trees filled with golden leaves, and Sansa told her of how she had come to fall in love with the Hound. Even with her misgivings, Arya did snort and laugh over Aunt Lysa's reactions. The woman had returned to Gettysburg sometime after the battle, but had declined Sansa's invitation to attend the wedding.

She spoke of her time in the hospital, nursing those poor soldiers back to health, and she didn't even try to hide the tremble in her voice when she described some of the things she'd seen. Arya listened intently as Sansa spoke of her and Sandor's escape before the battle and how he had brought her back to Winterfell. She left out most of the details of their "arrangement", and instead focused on her growing affection for him.

Then she softly told her sister of how Sandor was responsible for the release of their father. "What?" Arya exclaimed, spilling tea all over the blanket. Sansa explained how Sandor had dug up news of where her father was imprisoned and sent gold in exchange for his freedom. Arya stared at her for a long time before she finally threw up her hands. "Alright! Perhaps he's not so bad."

Delighted with this small victory, Sansa hesitantly inquired after her own adventures. Arya sighed, but told her.

"I've been…that is, Gendry and I…have been working with The Underground Railroad." "What is that?" Sansa asked, bewildered as to why there should be a train under the ground. "It's not a real railroad, Sansa. It's just a code name. We have secret routes and safe houses, used to help slaves escape the plantations in the South." Sansa raised her hand to mouth, gaping at her sister.

"Oh, Arya! Isn't that dangerous?" "Of course it is!" Arya answered, rolling her eyes as she lounged back in a very un-ladylike position. "But it's worth it, you know." Her eyes took on a far-away gaze, seeing things that Sansa could not. "I lost track of how many slaves we've helped, but I remember their faces. Women and children, mostly." She swallowed, her hands twitching. "I saw the scars on their wrists and ankles and necks from the chains. I saw their ribs jutting from their skin. I saw the lashes across their backs from whippings. And every time I saw that, it reminded me to keep going, no matter how many times we almost got caught, or shot at, or chased through the dark, not knowing if all of us would make it back to the safe house alive."

Sansa's palms were sweaty, and she wiped them off on her skirt quickly, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach. She had heard of the treatment of the slaves in the South, of how they were beaten and branded and sold off like animals, yet somehow, coming from Arya, it made it all the more real. She had seen the scars on her own servants, yet had refrained from mentioning them out of delicacy and not wishing to stir up painful memories for them. Unbidden, tears came to her eyes as she thought of what they must have endured.

"Who else did you work with besides Gendry?" she asked. "Our station master's name was Jaqen H'ghar, but there were a number of others working with us. Many of them rotated to different stations. Some of the already free slaves would go back to help more escape. But our main conductor oversees the routes coming from Virginia and Kentucky. She goes by "Dany", but I've never met her."

Sansa took Arya's hand, then hugged her. "You've been very brave, Arya, and I'm proud of you." Her sister seemed surprised at the gesture, but she hugged her back. "I'm sorry….that I wasn't there for Mother…I didn't know…" Arya's voice choked, and Sansa said nothing but stroked her back, and they stayed like that for a while the branches above slowly shed their leaves.

The frost was just beginning to appear when one morning Sansa woke feeling nauseous, and she barely made it the toilet before throwing up. "You just get right back into bed now, and I'll fix ya a good cup of tea," Lucinda instructed, clucking like a mother hen as she tucked Sansa back under the covers. Sansa groaned, wondering how she could be sick.

"It must have been the chicken we had yesterday," she told Lucinda, but the big woman only gave her mysterious smile and patted her arm. "You'll be jus fine, Miss Sansa. I best go get that tea now." Sansa propped the pillows behind her back and head and sighed, re-braiding her mussed hair.

Sandor was the one who brought her the tea. "What's this now? Is my little bird ill?" he murmured with a grin as he set her cup and saucer down and pulled her into his arms. Sansa weakly snuggled against him, hoping to absorb some of his strength. "I think I ate something that did not suit me," she whispered as he pet her hair. "Might be. Lucinda said you ought to stay in bed for a while." He kissed her forehead, her neck, and her nose before settling her back again. "Maybe for a bit. I don't feel so badly now," Sansa said with a smile, reaching for her tea.

Sandor chuckled, running his hand up her thigh. "There's no harm in taking it easy for the day, lass." He leaned forward, trapping her between his arms. "I'll go see if Bethy can scrounge up some of those lemon cakes you love so well. How's that sound, little bird?" "Oh, Sandor, that would be lovely!" Sansa beamed at the thought of getting to eat her favorite treat for breakfast. "Thank you." "You can thank me later, when you're feeling better," he growled softly, winking and stealing a quick kiss.

She rested for a few hours, eating the bowl of oatmeal and two lemon cakes that Lucinda sent up, and doing some sewing. By noon she felt well enough to dress and come downstairs, choosing to sit out on the porch. "There won't be many warm days left," she mourned. "Winter is coming." She wished Arya or the boys would come see her, until she remembered that they were going down to the creek to fish. Feeling restless, she eventually stood and wandered over to the back pastures, where the sun was stronger.

Taking a seat just inside one of the fences, she settled down in the grass and watched the horses grazing, their tales flipping occasionally. They had a good herd of them now, and Sandor was positive about Stranger mating with a few of the mares. She could see him now, checking a horse's hoof some ways down the pasture. She watched as the wind ruffled the collar of his shirt and blew his dark hair. It needed cutting, she mused. He was going to start looking like a wild man. Though she did love to run her fingers through it, like he did with hers. Sansa suddenly wondered what color hair their children might have.

After dinner and tea, Sansa took him by the hand. "I am feeling better, so I think it's time I thanked you for being sweet to me this morning." Sandor grinned wickedly, set down his glass of whiskey, and scooped her up into his arms and heading for the stairs, laughing while she squealed. Lucinda, who had been standing in the foyer, saw them and started fussing, saying something about Sansa not needing any excitement. The two ignored her, however, and were soon locked away in their bedroom.

Sansa had fallen asleep happy and content, nestled in Sandor's arms, but the next morning she awoke to a churning stomach once more, promptly losing what was left of her dinner. Sandor carefully helped her into a new nightgown and tucked her back into bed before sending one of the servants for Dr. Luwin.

"I'm sure 'tis nothing," she stated weakly. Sandor shook his head when she eyed her dressing gown which was thrown over the back of a chair. "You're not moving until he examines you, little bird. Getting sick once is fine, but twice…" Sansa finally relented, shifting in the bed to get more comfortable. Sandor dressed and she watched him through half-lidded eyes, recalling their lovely night wistfully.

Dr. Luwin arrived shortly after. He was an old, stooped man with kind eyes, a friend of her family for years. "Now Mr. Clegane, if you'll just give us some time alone while I examine her," he spoke softly, setting his black bag on a chair. Sandor did not look happy about being sent out and opened his mouth to say so, but Sansa nodded at him and smiled, so he sighed and left. She hoped he wouldn't stand outside and pace in the hallway and worry the servants.

A short time later, the doctor closed up his bag and patted her hand with a smile, gave her some instructions, and glanced towards the door. "I imagine your husband is getting anxious," he said. "I shall go fetch him." Luwin pulled the door close, leaving just a crack so that Sansa could hear their conversation.

"Well? What's wrong with her?" came Sandor's rasping voice, rough and worried. Sansa smiled, waiting for the doctor's answer.

"There is nothing wrong with your wife, Mr. Clegane. She's perfectly healthy." Sansa could almost see Sandor arching a thick eyebrow while he stared down the old man. "Perfectly healthy people don't lose their dinner every morning," he growled. She heard Dr. Luwin chukle slightly.

"Mr. Clegane, your wife is with child. I offer my congratulations." Sansa held her breath.

There was silence in the hallway, until she heard the doctor shuffling away towards the stairs. She bit her lip and focused on the blanket covering her, waiting. The door inched open, and Sandor walked in, shutting it behind him. Sansa could feel his heavy gaze, and she raised her eyes to his, offering a tremulous smile. The happiness inside her was threatening to overflow, and she could no longer bear remaining calm.

Sandor never took his eyes from her as he walked around the bed to sit on the edge, placing one hand on the other side of her. A small smirk pulled at his mouth as he looked her up and down, and Sansa blushed, for what reason she didn't know. "Are you…are you pleased?" she asked, her voice sounding like a squeak. A softness fell over his face, and his grey eyes warmed, captivating her as they always did. "Of course I'm pleased." He cupped her chin, caressing her cheek with his thumb. "My little bird." Sandor leaned forward and captured her mouth, kissing her slow and deeply, and Sansa threw her arms around his neck.

He kicked his shoes off and rolled into bed beside her, gathering her up in his arms as he showered her with kisses. Sansa could feel the warmth of his hands through her nightgown, and she shivered with delight, pressing herself closer to him. Sandor chuckled at her movements, and she joined him, giggling.

They lay together and spoke in hushed words about the joyful news, and Sansa felt that she had never been so happy, so fulfilled. The knowledge that she was carrying Sandor's child made her heart swell with so much love for both of them that she wanted laugh and cry all at the same time, so overwhelmed was she. Sandor seemed to share her enthusiasm, and even offered to ride over to Winterfell to let the rest of her family know. "Not just yet. Stay with me a while longer," Sansa asked, running her hands over his chest. "With pleasure, little wife," was his answering rasp, and he held her closer, burying his face into her hair and breathing her in.

* * *

><p><em>I'm going to be a father<em>. Sandor chewed the notion over as he saddled Stranger. So many unexpected things had happened to him since he met Sansa; things he had never thought he would have a chance at. He was an ugly, scarred man, good with animals and good at killing, and he had figured that was all his life would be. If someone had told him a couple years ago that he would marry the most angelic girl to ever grace the earth and start a family with her, Sandor would have laughed before beating the poor sot to a pulp.

Yet here he was, preparing to ride over to Winterfell to let his father-in-law know he was to be a grandfather. Sansa fell asleep upstairs, so Sandor took it as his queue to head over. He looked forward to the ride, as it would give him some time alone to think about the changes that were about to come over their household.

According to the doc, Sansa was a little over a month pregnant, so it would still be a while before the baby arrived. She wasn't even really showing yet, though Sandor had noticed that she was filling out a little more and gaining more curves. Which he would never complain about. Just the mere thought that she was carrying his child made his blood run hot, and he itched to go back in the warm house and join her under the blankets of their bed. But first things first. There would be plenty of time for them to…celebrate, later.

The ride to Winterfell was enjoyable in spite of the growing bite in the crisp air. Having grown up in the South and spending a lot of time in the West, Sandor had yet to experience a true Northern winter, but if the frost and quickly changing seasons were any indication, it was bound to be an extremely cold one. At least their child would be born in the beginning of summer and not in the dead of winter.

Ned Stark received him into the study, and upon hearing the good news, the man almost wept. Though he was not a very emotional man himself, Sandor felt he could understand Ned's feelings. The man had lost his wife, one son, and possibly another, and the arrival of a grandchild in the family was probably a soothing balm for the pangs of loss. Jory joined them, and they ended up opening a fine bottle of whisky and toasting to Sandor and Sansa and the health of the baby.

"How is Sansa?" Ned asked as he added some ice to his glass. "She's tired but happy. The doc said she's healthy and they are both doing well." With the alcohol warming his veins, Sandor began to feel even more excited, and nervous as well. Would he be a good father? Sandor wanted to be, but he didn't know the first thing about being a parent. His own father was certainly not a good example. He would certainly need a great deal of gentle nudging and encouragement from the little bird.

After the initial rejoicing between the two families had slowed, Sansa began eagerly sewing mountains of baby clothes, diapers, and blankets. Ned brought over Catelyn's old rocking chair and set it in the sitting room. "Your mother would have wanted you to have it," he told her with a misty smile. Sansa cherished the chair, and every day she sat in it and rocked, sewing a little pair of socks or a hat.

Sandor couldn't believe how much was needed for a baby. His memories of his sister's birth were faint and fuzzy, being so young himself, and he had no prior experience with infants. Sansa remembered her mother carrying Arya, Bran, and Rickon, so she, thankfully, was aware of the requirements and accepted them with an eager confidence.

When it came to the question of the cradle, Sandor decided to build it himself, rather than waste money on buying one. He liked the task anyways, and Sansa was so pleased when he told her that she practically attacked him in their bed.

Had she become more beautiful? Sandor could have sworn that every day she grew more lovely, glowing even. She hummed and even sang more, and was increasingly more affectionate and responsive in their bed, and Sandor encouraged these interests in particular. For once, she was the one with an almost insatiable desire, and Sandor sometimes wondered where his blushing, shy little bird had flown off to. But he would be a fool to complain.

She often grew teary-eyed for Catelyn Stark, longing for the advice only a mother could give her daughter, but Lucinda knew a great deal of the matter and kindly and gently assumed the title. Even Septa Mordane seemed to have finally put away some of her misgivings about Sandor in the excitement, and she drove over often to help Sansa with the sewing, as well as Jeyne Poole. Sandor tried to make himself scarce when all the women were together, sure that his gruff and "uncouth" presence was unwanted, but he was glad that their company made Sansa happy.

About two months into the pregnancy, the days and evenings had grown colder, but the war was waning. The North was on the verge of victory, and spirits were tentatively high, anxious for the fighting to end and family members to return. Sandor had been working quietly with Ned Stark to find Jon, but nothing had been heard of him as yet. The boy had simply disappeared off the face of the earth, much to the agony of his father and half-siblings. Sandor was sure the boy was dead, probably blown up by a canon-ball, but he kept that idea to himself.

One particularly chilly evening, Sandor was sitting in the study, reading a letter from a potential buyer for some of the colts to be foaled come spring. His door opened and Sansa came in, shutting it quietly behind her. She had been baking with Lucinda and Bethy in the kitchen, and Sandor had hardly seen her all day. "Little Bird," he murmured, tossing the letter aside and beckoning to her. His lovely wife beamed and floated across the carpet to him, and he pulled her into his lap. "How are you, my love?" Sansa asked, kissing his cheek. "I'm a content old dog now that you're in here with me," Sandor rasped, nuzzling her neck.

Sansa giggled and snuggled further into his arms. "I'm yours for the rest of the day, my love." "Excellent. Should I lock the door?" He gripped her possessively, a hundred thoughts running through his head of all the things they could spend the day doing, and had just claimed her sweet lips when there was the faint sound of a knock on the front door. "Who could that be?" Sansa asked, a little breathless from Sandor's attentions. "Whoever it is, they can bugger off," he growled, nipping her neck.

Some muffled voices reached their ears, and a moment later came a soft knock on the study door. Sansa straightened up from their embrace and smoothed her skirt and hair. Sandor, disgruntled at being interrupted, barked out, "Come in." Lucinda peeked through the door, her eyes wide with fear though she kept her face calm. "It's a Mr. Tywin Lannister to see ya, sir."

Sandor felt Sansa freeze where she sat, heard her intake of breath. He himself felt the alertness of the Hound come back to him, and he stood slowly, gently placing Sansa on her feet. "Bring him to the study, Lucinda," he rasped, and the servant moved out of the room.

"What's Mr. Lannister doing here?" Sansa whispered, taking his hand. He did not answer.

The door opened again, and Lucinda led in Tywin. He was tall, stern gentleman, with graying blonde hair and piercing eyes. He was dressed in a fine but sensible suit with an overcoat. Sansa, ever the hostess, managed a polite smile. "Good evening, Mr. Lannister." "Mrs. Clegane," Tywin responded. "I hear congratulations are in order." Sandor stiffened, though he let his face show nothing. "I-yes, thank you." Sansa wrung her hands a little, glancing between them uncertainly. She felt the tension, no doubt.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked. "I would," Tywin said in his usual clipped tone, as he unwound his scarf and set his overcoat over the back of a chair. Sansa nodded to Lucinda, who left the room as soon as she could.

They all took seats. Sandor could feel Sansa's glances, probably wondering why he wasn't saying anything. Tywin's green eyes were studying the room, and he felt her nudge him with her foot. "How is your family doing, Mr. Lannister?" Sansa tried. "They are well, thank you. Joffrey and Margaery are expecting a child soon, themselves." "Oh, well you must extend my congratulations as well," Sansa replied, shifting slightly.

Lucinda brought the tea, and once she left Sandor spoke. "Sansa, I believe Tywin and I have some things to discuss. Would you excuse us?" He kept his voice low but firm, and the little bird stood uneasily. "Of course, husband. Excuse me, Mr. Lannister." She curtseyed and left the room.

The room was silent for a moment, save for the crackling of the fire. Sandor met Tywin's eyes, green and cold and calculating. "Tea is well enough, but so is whiskey, if you'd prefer," Sandor said, standing and approaching the liquor cabinet. "I shouldn't mind a glass," Tywin answered calmly. Sandor poured for them both and reclaimed his seat.

"You've been expecting me, then?" Tywin asked, getting to the point. "I knew you would come at some point," Sandor replied, swirling the contents of his glass. "Your son told me you might." "My son?" Tywin asked, arching an eyebrow. "Yes. We met Tyrion on the steamer coming back from our honeymoon." Sandor had met Tyrion on the deck one night for a smoke after Sansa had fallen asleep in their quarters. The dwarf had then told him that Tywin would most likely be paying him a visit.

"I'm sure you know why," the Imp said, puffing calmly from his own cigar. "Aye, I do. Do you think to frighten me with that information?" Sandor had mocked. "No. I know you are a man who is not easily intimidated," Tyrion had answered. "But tread lightly, Hound. That is a warning. A Lannister always pays his debts."

Those words rang in Sandor's ears has he remembered the conversation. No doubt he would be hearing them again tonight.

Tywin pursed his lips in displeasure. "Tyrion is always meddling in affairs that are not his own. But at least this way we can get straight to the matter." He leaned forward, placing his empty glass on the table. "You owe me a great deal, Clegane. Did you think hiding in the North could erase that?"

Sandor bristled, setting his own glass aside so he wouldn't break it. "I owe you nothing, Tywin. Don't tell me you didn't find the money I returned on your desk at Three Oaks."

"That money is nothing," Tywin spat. "You cost me more than that for not doing your job." Sandor's face twitched in agitation.

"When you told me it was a shipment, I expected that it was the normal kind of supplies from your plantations. I arrived at the docks, only to discover that the ship was not holding cotton, or crops. No. The bottom hold was crammed full of slaves, bound for the Islands. You were going to sell them there." He stood and went to the window, remembering the sight that had been before him when he had walked down the stairs to see men, women, and children chained from top to bottom. Sandor was many things, but a slave trader he was not.

"That still doesn't explain why the ship never reached the Islands," Tywin almost shouted. "Don't tell me you, the Hound, felt pity for the cargo." He spat the last word, and Sandor turned slowly to face him. "Human beings are not cargo. If you wanted someone to do your dirty work, then you should have sent my brother or Trant."

"What did you do with them, then?" Tywin asked with barely controlled anger.

"You want know what I did? I paid the crew to keep quiet and I sailed the ship to the North, by the borders of Canada, and I set the slaves free. Then I returned with the money you paid me." He reached for his glass again, reveling in the infuriated expression on the other man's face.

"I knew you were never very smart, Clegane, but I never took you for a fool." Tywin stood now as well. "Do you know how much many I lost because of you? We were relying on the payment from the slavers in the Islands. If you're going to take it upon yourself to be some kind of rescuer, of slaves, then you need to understand the consequences of those actions."

The two men were squared off now, neither backing down. "You will repay me for the loss of the _cargo, _Clegane." Sandor shook his head, snorting. "You think I'm going to pay you back for setting your slaves free? You deserve whatever you lost, Tywin. Maybe you should be chained up in a dark cramped hold, see how enjoyable it can be."

Tywin seethed inwardly for a moment, then he slowly reached for his coat. Sandor's hand went casually inside his own coat, closing his fingers around the smooth handle of a revolver, alert. But Tywin merely shook his coat out, then looked around the room again.

"You've done very well for yourself, Clegane. It seems the life of smuggling and crime has paid off. You even have a wife. She's quite a lovely little thing." He let the words hang in the air before adding, "It would be shame should anything happen to her."

The thin cord of patience broke, and Sandor felt an almost blinding rage flood his veins. He pulled out the revolver and pointed it at Tywin. "You will do nothing to Sansa," he snarled, stepping forward. "You will leave this house now, and never come back. If so much as a hair on her head is harmed, I will hold you personally responsible, and I will kill you. Do you understand?'

Tywin watched him calmly as he put on his coat and scarf. "Have a good evening, Clegane." He turned and opened the door, then paused. "Oh, I will be sure to let your brother know he is to become an uncle. I am sure the news will please him."

Sandor's eye twitched as icy fear gripped his heart. Gregor. _That bastard…_

"A Lannister always pays his debts, Clegane. And we make sure others do the same."

Tywin walked out into the hallway, and Sandor vaguely heard him saying a goodbye to Sansa before the front door opened, then shut again. A moment later the little bird appeared in the doorway, her brows furrowed with worry, and she gasped when she saw he was holding the gun.

"Sandor, what happened?" He clenched his jaw and set the revolver on the table with a sigh. "Close the door, Sansa. I have to tell you something."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Sorry for the wait! This picks up immediately after the previous chapter.

Sandor's tension and the wild, black look in his eyes made Sansa tremble as they sat together and he mulled over what to say to her. Unsure of what had happened between him and Tywin, Sansa rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, eager to offer him some respite from the strain of whatever this was.

Her husband sighed and looked at her, his jaw set tightly and fists curled at his sides. "My love," Sansa spoke softly, "what is it?" "Sit down, lass, and I'll tell you." Sansa chose a corner of the loveseat and settled back against a cushion, her hands automatically coming to rest upon her growing belly. Sandor watched the movement and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Sansa…you know I did work for the Lannisters awhile back." She nodded slowly, trying to understand what this about, and even growing frustrated as well. Not at Sandor, but at Tywin, for coming here to their home and disturbing her husband and the peace they had.

"Yes, Sandor, I remember. You left their service shortly after the war broke out. That's why you remained in the North." He nodded wearily. "Before I left, Tywin commissioned me with one last job. It was different than others I had done for him, but the pay was good, so I accepted without knowing the details. I was instructed to sail with a shipment to the Islands and make sure everything was delivered, collect payment, and sail back."

Sandor turned to a window and stared outside, the scarred side of his face twitching. "When I arrived at the harbor and boarded the ship, I discovered that the cargo was slaves. Hundreds of them, cramped into the lower hold with no light and barely any air to breath. They were chained to each other the walls."

Sansa swallowed hard, her heart filling with sorrow at the thought of what those poor slaves had endured. "What happened then?" she coaxed gently.

"I couldn't do it," Sandor answered simply. "I could not be a part of that. Tywin knew that I never dealt with the slave trade, yet he chose me for the task anyways."

He ran a hand over his face, then turned and joined Sansa on the loveseat. She took his hands in her own, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

"I commandeered the ship and sailed it to the Canada border instead, and set the slaves free under the cover of night. Some of them, most of them probably, died after from sickness. But it seemed better that they die free men than in chains, beaten by their masters."

"I sailed the ship back and let the crew do as they pleased, but I returned to Three Oaks and gave Tywin what he had paid me in advance. A while after that is when I began blockade running for the North, and we met again in Gettysburg."

"It was very brave, what you did," Sansa told him, wrapping her hands around his arm. "It was a fool's notion," Sandor spat, shaking his head. "I figured the war would keep Tywin occupied enough that he wouldn't have time to seek me out. But the war is ending, and he knows everything now."

Understanding dawned on Sansa as she fit the pieces together. "He visited today because he wants something for the slaves you set free," she stated. "Aye. He lost money and business over it, and he demands I pay him back. I refused." Sandor's fists clenched again and for a moment Sansa thought he might hit something.

"I'm a bloody fool, and I've pulled you into this mess. I'm sorry, little bird." "No, Sandor," Sansa said quickly. "Do not apologize for doing the right thing. Whatever Tywin has threatened you with, it is better than having guilt on your conscious for compromising your…code." Sandor barked a rough, joyless laugh and shook his head again.

"You're wrong, little bird. Tywin holds the leash to my brother." The fear that had begun diminish in Sansa's spirit flared once more, bringing with it an icy cold shudder as she thought of Gregor Clegane.

Sandor turned to her quickly and pulled her into his arms. "I promise, little bird, he won't touch you or our baby. Do you hear me? He will have to kill me before that." He was almost growling, his eyes wide with desperation and swirling with hate for his brother, and fear for her, Sansa realized.

Anxious to calm him, Sansa leaned into his embrace and rested her head against his shoulder. "I have faith in you, Sandor. I know you will protect us." She nuzzled the side of his neck. "I know I have nothing to fear as long as you are with me."

"Little bird," he rasped, holding her tighter. "Bugger Tywin and Gregor. The devil himself couldn't take me away from you."

They spent the rest of the evening shut away together, drawing strength from each other's presence and discussing the future. Sandor's anger had slowly ebbed into broodiness, and Sansa requested that they take their dinner in their private rooms. Sandor was more than willing to avoid playing at manners and gracing a practically empty dining room table, and he followed Sansa to their room without complaint.

He suggested that they perhaps remove themselves farther north, to a place where Tywin did not have spies and would not expect them to go. But the thought of traveling far when she was with child, and leaving her father and sister and brothers, gave Sansa reluctance at his idea. She ran her hand over her stomach thoughtfully while Sandor paced the floor.

"The war is not over yet," she commented softly. "And Gregor Clegane is not a man easily missed. I'm sure if he entered the north, the word would spread quickly." Sandor did not seem to share in her optimism, but he kept his thoughts to himself, responding only with a frown and a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"My love, come here," Sansa beckoned to him from where she lay on the bed, propped against the thick down pillows. He kicked off his boots and crawled in next to her, wrapping his arm around her body and burying his face in her hair. "We are safe here," she whispered, running a hand through his dark locks. "Tywin can't possibly be able to stay in the north for long, even with his name and connections." Sandor snorted, the sound muffled. "He'll have his spies, little bird. Don't be naïve. He will always be watching, waiting for the right moment. He will not let this go overlooked, even if it takes years."

His words chilled her to the bone and she snuggled further into his chest. Winter had just begun, but she felt its cold wind grasping greedily at her happiness, wanting to strip away all she had and leave her bare.

Emma Rose Clegane was born on a sunny morning just after the last snows were melting from the high fields.

The winter had been hard, as expected. People were beginning to feel the strain that the war placed on their supplies, and many things were scarce and prices rose. Eyes looked eagerly towards spring, which was all they could hope for as the end of the war began to not be as near as they had thought.

In mid-February Sansa had become ill with some cold or other, and while Doctor Luwin deemed it not serious, he insisted on a very strict regime for her to regain perfect health. She had been worried about the baby more than herself, but Sandor had been frantic for both of them. And when Sandor was frantic, he was prone to violent outbursts and crude language, even threatening the doctor with bodily harm should Sansa's illness take a turn for the worse, for both her and the baby. Only Sansa's gentle reassurances that she would be fine could calm him.

For some time their bedroom was occupied by cups of tea, a myriad of different bottles containing horrid syrups and medicines, and piles of hankies that Sansa blew through faster than Bethy could wash them for reuse. Sandor had moved into the guest bedroom at night after Sansa insisted she did not want to keep him up with all her sniffling and coughing, and what if he became sick too? Both of them hated the arrangement, and at bedtime Sandor lingered at their door, staring at her longingly before sighing in frustration and leaving. Sansa hated not feeling his warmth next to her as she slept, and it made her cry, which of course stopped her nose up more.

Thankfully she was not bed-ridden for long, but for a few weeks after she was forbidden to leave the house, unless it was a few minutes on the front porch for some fresh air, and then she was bundled up from head to toe. "I feel like one of those Egyptian mummies," she complained to Sandor.

At long last her sickness ended, and with it began the slow thawing as spring approached. Sansa's pregnancy was advanced by then and she felt outrageously fat. Lucinda made her a batch of lemoncakes, and Sansa sat and ate them all in one sitting, crying, as she stared at her beautiful dresses she could not wear. Sandor told her she was being foolish.

"Where would you wear those damn dresses anyways, with the snow drifts up to your pretty white thighs? Besides, I like you wearing your nightgowns and house-robes more, they are much easier to take off, don't you think?" Sansa tried to pout at him, but her blushing gave her away and he only laughed.

One night spasms erupted in Sansa's body, waking her and Sandor, who called for Lucinda. Lucinda felt around and counted the spasms, and told Sandor he should fetch the doctor. Her husband barked for one of the boys and sent him on the fastest horse they had besides Stranger, and another was sent to Winterfell to let her father and siblings aware that the child was arriving.

The labor pains and constrictions continued and Sansa gasped and groaned, becoming sweaty with the effort. She wanted her mother so badly it was difficult to remember to breathe.

Lucinda woke Bethy and together they kept her cool with water and cloths while they waited for the doctor to arrive. Sandor hovered worriedly, holding her hand and muttering curses and other words under his breath, among which was a promise to skin the doctor alive if he didn't hurry and arrive already.

But he did arrive, and the labor went on, and when the time grew closer his assistant suggested Sandor leave the room. "It's no place for a husband to be," the nurse informed him curtly. Sandor gaped at her for a moment, then the Hound emerged with black anger across his face, causing the woman to stumble back in alarm. "And who's going to keep me out? You?" he thundered, and laughed humorlessly at her reaction. With a growl he returned to Sansa's side, taking seat firmly and glaring about the room, daring anyone else to try to tell him he should leave.

Sansa didn't remember much about the actual birthing, only that there was a lot of pain and pushing that never seemed to end, and she clenched so hard to Sandor's hand she thought she must be cutting off his circulation, and someone was screaming. Was it her? _Oh, Mother, I wish you were here_. Sansa had been told to expect pain, and she had heard Catelyn Stark's cries when her sister and two younger brothers were born, but never had she imagined this white-hot, searing flame that was consuming her entire body.

Was this similar to what Sandor had felt when Gregor had pushed his face in the fire?

But then it was over, and a small yet piercing wail met her ears: the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. _My baby._

Through the haze of sweat and ebbing pain she tried to focus on where the sound was coming from, blinking and struggling to sit up while the maids cleaned her off. Sandor hadn't moved, but he was staring at something in the doctor's arms. "Congratulations, it's a healthy baby girl," Doctor Luwin announced as he handed off the squirming infant to be cleaned as well.

Exhausted, Sansa fell back against the pillows and her eyes slid close as she tried to regain her breath. Sandor's lips pressed against her forehead and he rasped lowly, "Well done, little bird."

When she awoke, the sun was streaming through a crack in the curtains, though she could not say how much time must have passed. Shifting around, she heard some small whimpering, gurgling sounds, and looked blearily over to the side of the bed where Sandor was sitting, holding the baby wrapped in a soft pink and white blanket that Sansa had knitted. She looked very small nestled in his large arms.

"Oh, Sandor…let me see her," she pleaded, and Sandor grinned and handed the baby to her carefully.

"She's so beautiful," Sansa whispered, staring down at the little pink face peeking out of the blanket. Their daughter already had a scattering of soft, dark downy hair, and her eyes occasionally opened in little slits, peering cautiously out at this strange new world. Sansa felt so full of love she feared she might burst. Tears of happiness pricked her eyes.

Sandor had scooted closer to her side and arranged an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, watching their daughter wriggle in the blankets.

"She'll look like you," Sandor spoke after a moment, clearing his throat. Sansa smiled and looked up at him. His face was sorted in its usual sternness, but his eyes were soft as he regarded both her and the baby, and when his mouth twitched into a small grin Sansa knew he was just as overjoyed as she was.

"I think she will have your eyes," Sansa answered, tracing the baby's cheek with her finger. Just then the infant let a series of soft, anxious cries, and Sansa started, not knowing what to do for a minute, but Lucinda entered with a tray and bowl of something steaming. "She'll be hungry jus' now, Missus," the woman informed her with a cheery smile. "Oh, of course," Sansa responded, feeling stupid. She shyly rearranged her nightgown and held the baby to her chest, and a few moments later the cries stopped and were replaced by soft sucking sounds.

"I seen lots of babies in my time," Lucinda continued as she arranged the tray on a side table, "but that there wee one is the pertiest I ever see. You decided on a name, now?" "Oh!" Sansa gasped. She had made a list of names, of course…crossing them out and circling them and petitioning certain ones for Sandor's approval. But in all the excitement she had completely forgotten.

Glancing at Sandor, she smiled softly and said, "We like "Emma", don't we?" Sandor smirked and nodded, crossing his arms so she had more room to navigate the feeding process. "Aye, it's a good name." "And I thought…maybe "Rose" for her middle name…after your sister," Sansa continued in a hushed voice while Lucinda pretended not to notice. He was very still for a few minutes, apparently weighing the decision as his mouth tightened, then he exhaled and nodded. "I would like that."

Sansa squeezed his hand and looked down at the baby. "Emma Rose Clegane it is."

Birthing babies was entirely beyond the scope of any of Sandor's abilities, but he was determined to be there for his little bird through the entire ordeal.

The labor lasted a good while, and Sandor was not accustomed to sitting for so long and feeling useless, only able to hold Sansa's hand while she whimpered through the contractions. Everyone else seemed to be busy doing something for her. Maybe he should have ridden for that blasted doctor himself.

Where was that old man, anyway? What if the baby came before he got there? Sure, Lucinda could probably deliver the infant just fine, but what about Sansa? What if something went wrong? Where was the bloody wine when you needed it?

His poor little bird looked small and tired, and Sandor snatched up a damp washcloth to cool her forehead. "I'm alright," she murmured, squeezing his hand while her other palm clenched the bed sheets. She didn't look alright to Sandor, but he nodded and kissed her hand anyway. _Gods, I need wine. Or whiskey. _

After the doctor finally arrived, filled with numerous explanations of which Sandor did not give a rat's arse to hear, the real work began. All through the long dark night and into the early gray morning, Sandor sat with his little bird while she screamed and groaned and cried out as their child was being born.

He had been paying so much attention to Sansa that he almost missed the baby finally being lifted up out from between her legs and sheets. The infant was covered in blood and other liquids and wriggling like a worm. Sandor stared while they wrapped it in a towel, and the doctor proceeded to inform them that they had a baby girl.

_A girl. My daughter. _

He looked down at Sansa as she was smiling faintly and drifting off to sleep. He was worried for a minute until Lucinda told him that she needed rest and she was doing just fine. He nodded and moved away from the bed so they could clean his wife up, then the doctor approached him with the baby, now clean and wrapped snuggly in the blanket Sansa had knitted a few months ago.

"Would you like to hold her?" Doctor Luwin asked kindly. Sandor's palms began to sweat as he stared at the little bundle nervously. He had helped birth colts and puppies before and held them; surely this would be no different. Carefully he held his arms out, mimicking the doctor, and his daughter was placed in his arms.

She was so tiny. Sandor could hold her in the crook of just one arm and he did so as cautiously as he could, like she was made of glass and he might break her. The little pink face was all that was visible until a small fist darted out from the folds of the blanket, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Sandor offered her one of his own fingers and her hand closed around it, soft and warm against his own callousness. Like Sansa.

A strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, feeling bubbled up inside Sandor as he watched the babe cuddle closer towards his chest, apparently seeking warmth and comfort after what must have been a rather startling journey out of the safety of her mother's belly.

When Sansa finally awoke, Sandor rose to sit on the bed, as he was sure she would want to see their daughter. The little bird looked completely worn out, but Sandor thought she had never been more beautiful than she was now, holding their baby and nursing her. A swell of pride made his heart pound within his chest, and he knew nothing, not even Gregor or Tywin Lannister, could ruin this moment for him.

Sandor had not much cared what they named their daughter as long as it was nothing ridiculous like Jonquil. "Emma" was a good enough name, and it went well with Clegane, and Sandor hoped that would be the end of it, but then Sansa brought up his sister. The little bird meant well, and only wanted to please him, and the irritation he had first felt quickly melted as he studied her glowing and hopeful face. It was sweet of her to want to remember his sister in some small way, and Sandor did not want to disappoint her.

When Emma was finished nursing, Lucinda took her and insisted Sansa eat some of the broth she had brought up, and Sansa meekly complied, most likely too tired argue. Lucinda placed the baby in the cradle and made sure she was secure in her blankets.

Sandor finally poured himself a long over-due drink, relishing the taste of the whiskey as it went down his throat and warmed his stomach. He watched Sansa eat her broth, daintily in spite of the day's early activities. She kept glancing at the cradle longingly, so he stood and gently scooted it closer so she lean over and see inside. "Thank you, my love," Sansa told him gratefully, and he bent over to kiss her sweet mouth.

A/N: To quote Mellie from GWtW: "The happiest days are when babies are born". Kind of a shorter chapter, I know, but I wanted one that was just dedicated to the baby's birth before moving onward. Hope you enjoyed it!


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